


Home

by iamanidhwal



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Groping, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Language Kink, M/M, Mild Gore, Not beta-read, Self-Destruction, Self-Loathing, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Suicide, Suicide mention, Wade not knowing Peter is Spiderman, angst later on, fear of thunder, self-destruct, slow build-up, some smut later on, trigger warning, tw suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:05:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2464322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamanidhwal/pseuds/iamanidhwal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's the difference between a house and a home? Simple: a house is a structure, only pertaining to its physical attribute. Home, on the other hand, is where you feel you belong to, the place you are at ease living in. A home may not be a house, just as a house may not be a home.</p><p>Peter Parker wasn't really okay with the fact that, with his current financial status, he'd best board in with a roommate to continue living in the city, since he thought it would constrict his Spider-Man duties, but then, an offer conveniently presents itself upon him by a mysterious, blue-eyed man. He follows the trail, and at the end of it is Wade Wilson, otherwise known as Deadpool. But before he even tries to escape, Peter reluctantly finds he's already trapped in what ironically was a kind of web the mercenary had spun. After some time, he's gotten comfortable enough on the web, and soon found himself starting to want to get closer to the center. But of course, he'd have to risk Spider-Man altogether, and Deadpool couldn't be actually considered as "stable"... Just how long could he keep this charade up?</p><p>All he wanted was a place to call home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pamphlets

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Home（中文翻译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116533) by [Lwnixndk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lwnixndk/pseuds/Lwnixndk)



> So this is my first ever fanfic posted on AO3, as well as my first fanfic ever published in, what, three years? //slapped
> 
> Anyway, this fanfic is primarily driven by two prompts that I found on Tumblr, which are:
> 
> 1\. "Where the fuck is my poor-as-fuck-roommates AU? With two people moving in together because they're too freaking poor to afford an apartment on their own. With the two of them sleeping in the same bed at night because winters get fucking cold and their heat gets shut off on a regular basis. With the two of them showering together because it helps "save on the water bill". With the two of them refusing to move out of that hole in the wall even when they can afford to because it's not just a shitty, run-down apartment - it's home." (gotten from plotsforall)
> 
> 2."I really wanna read a fic where Wade and Peter are dating and Peter knows Wade is Deadpool, but Wade doesn't know Peter is Spiderman. And Wade gets a job to kill Spiderman, and Peter like pulls the mask off just as Wade's about to shove a knife through him and it can be either angsty or fluffy. I need this." (gotten from spideypoolfanfics)

* * *

 

Peter Parker knew for a fact that if he went home to Aunt May, he’d have not only killed Spiderman for good but also put additional burden on each of the Avengers’ shoulders. He’d leave New York all of a sudden, and they’d be asking what happened to the hero in red-and-blue spandex, swinging over and in between buildings? The other heroes tasked to protect the city weren’t actually keen on crowd control, expecting the police to do that, while Spiderman had both hands deep in both departments. With him gone, the crowd might go wild, and not in the good way.

 Just with that one single decision of going back.

He looked around at his crappy old apartment. Even with its paint peeling in long strips from the walls, even with the dust bunnies multiplying under every table, even with the jacked-up heater that wheezed for him one last time this morning, he’d miss the old place. It had been what he’d call home for a little over two years. It had been there for him, shielding him from whatever storm New York suddenly barrelled into. It had housed him when he was cramming both his deadlines for his academics as well as his deadlines for The Daily Bugle. It had welcomed him with grimy, open arms, when he stumbled around in the dark as Spiderman, with all his cuts and bruises. It had tucked him in to sleep with a cold draft whistling through, and it would wake him up with the cold water sputtering from the rusty shower.

Of course he’d be sad when he had to say goodbye.

He had to face the reality. Aunt May’s stipend wasn’t exactly the best, what with Uncle Ben gone, and it was already lacking just with his expenses in college alone. So when he thought he had enough savings from working at The Daily Bugle, he had moved away from Aunt May and closer to the city to try and ease the pain in her pockets, but it got worse. Of course, living near the city’s heart meant a higher cost of living, and he had to send a lot of pictures of Spiderman to The Daily Bugle to have enough to buy food for a week, and not to mention the bills and the rent.

Until finally, a week before, his landlord had told him that he couldn’t do this anymore, and gave him an eviction notice with one week to shell out. He didn’t know where to go, and of course he didn’t want to insist on anyone, _especially_ Aunt May. He’d want to save face, and keep the responsibility of being Spiderman altogether.

He’d have found a job that pays better, as an intern at OsCorp (and this time, it was _his_ name on the name tag, but there was still a twinge of pain in his heart when the new Head Intern greeted them and guided them through OsCorp, the Head Intern who had replaced Gwen Stacy after she died), but the notice was far too late to talk the landlord out of it. He had the job to pay for a roof, but he needed to look for available space first, preferably somewhere small and preferably shared with someone who didn’t bother with their roomies.

He dragged himself to a small café and ordered a latte to ease his nerves.  His bags were beside him on either side of his feet. He looked around, willing himself to see something, _anything_ that would give him a way to secure a roof above his head by tonight. Saying goodbye to the old place was heartbreaking, to say the least. He kept looking back at his unit, stripped bare of every piece of evidence that Peter Parker lived there, and wished that he could go back and just go  _flump!_ on the couch again, forgetting the whole idea of leaving altogether.

But that didn't happen,  _couldn't_ happen, and with a heavy heart that seemed to get heavier with every step he took away from the familiar door, he finally left.

He sighed and decided to go look for a miracle, but he was too caught up with the miserable thought that he didn’t know he had hit someone entering the café with his bag on the way out. Although the day was a bit sunnier than usual, the man was wearing jeans and a pull-over hoodie with a baseball cap. The hood of his jacket was drawn up, and the bill of his cap was pulled down so no one could get a clear look on his face. His eyes widened in horror when he saw the man’s papers, tucked neatly in his hands, scatter all over the floor.

“Oh _shit!”_ Peter quickly ducked and took each of the papers to try and at least make up for what he has done. “Oh, God, I’m sorry – “

“Hey, hey, it’s all good, I can do it –“ The man said, a bit worried and more amused than annoyed like Peter expected. The latter looked up at the former, and he only saw clear blue eyes before the man straightened, turned and ran.

“I… what…” To say that Peter was confused was an understatement. The man had been quite flustered when he tried to help, but the second he looked at him, he turned tail and fled? He frowned to himself as he straightened up, the papers still on his hand. He awkwardly shuffled his bags and coffee and went out the door, trying to read the paper.

**WANTED**

** ROOMMATE **

He only saw the first two words but he felt like someone had pushed him into a wall to the point that he felt breathless. He fought back a joyful scream, and he patted his pockets for the phone to contact the number on the bottom of the page for the room. He waited patiently, rocking back and forth on his heels, while the phone rang. Finally, a gruff voice answered. “Hello?”

“Uhm, hi,” he said, flustered for a bit. Why the fuck was he blushing? “Erm, is this… uh…” He looked down at the name in bold letters on the bottom. “Mr. Wade Wilson? I’m to inquire about the roommate thing…?”

“Oh! Of course!” The person at the other end sounded happy, perhaps because his searching had borne fruit after all. He told him the address, and Peter didn’t have to write it down; his nightly patrols of New York made him memorize every part of the city. The apartment was actually only two blocks from where he was standing. “All bills, including rent, will be shared equally, and we only have one room, but two separate beds, and the shower’s really not that good but the heater at least works from time to time, and – “

“That sounds perfect,” he smiled to himself, not really listening to the other man rambling on. “Can I go there? I’ll be there in five.”

There was some sort of commotion on the other line. “Ah? Y-y-y-yeah, sure, sure! I’ll just ring you up then, alright? It’s room 304!” He said and ended the call.

“…Huh.” He smiled to himself, not really fazed by the man’s behaviour. But at least he got a decent deal. He silently thanked the blue-eyed man, whoever he was, for giving him (albeit indirectly) the chance to start again. And with that, he half-walked, half-jogged to his hopefully new address.

When the building came into his view, he slowed down to at least look calm and composed. He looked at the number of doorbells and saw that the number 304 was written in red and black crayon, and only the initials “W.W.” were hastily scrawled. He furrowed his brow and pressed the button, hearing a distant chime. After a few seconds, the intercom buzzed to life.

“Yep?”

“It’s me,” he said, smiling brightly. There was a buzz, and the door was unlocked. He helped himself in, then climbed the stairs and knocked on the right door.

By this time, he felt dread and excitement churning in the pit of his stomach. He hoped his roommate wouldn’t mind him going out every so often with late night ‘projects’ (ahem, patrols), and going back and waking up near noon, of him insisting on doing the laundry in some small and obscure laundry shop, of his hectic schedule. He saw a figure looking out through the small peephole, and he smiled and raised his hand in greeting.

After what seemed like a minute full of sounds that seemed like someone on the other side was unlatching a multitude of locks, the door opened.

Peter spoke up immediately, too excited to wait. “Hello, uh, my name’s Peter Parker, and –“

He suddenly stopped, staring in horror at the masked person who answered the door. He felt like his stomach fell into a never-ending pit, and there was a gnawing sensation inside of him. He stepped back, panic at what he had said and who he said it to, settling in. When he had finally found his voice, he could only manage out a strangled croak:

“ _Deadpool?!”_

 


	2. Deal With The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the kudos and hits and comments are amazing! Thank you so much ;a; I reread the first chapter, and yeah, that was kind of a cliff-hanger (hehe. totally intentional.) so, here's the second chapter :) Hope you guys will stay reading until the end! *huggles*
> 
> P.S. Holla at yo bi-curious Spidey-boy

 

* * *

He tried blinking rapidly, and then rubbed his eyes to clear them of the image of the unmistakable red-and-black mask. Surely, it had to be a joke, _surely…_

He looked up at the other person, hoping against hope it was someone else...

Nope. Still Deadpool.

“Oh, uh, I’m s-s-sorry, uh, wrong door I think,” he mumbled lamely, then started to take off, but then two words made him stop in fear, made his blood run cold.

“Peter Parker.”

Peter gulped. _Shit._ He had heard. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, he had heard him say his name. **Dammit, why couldn’t he just shut up?!**_

“Yes?” He turned around, mustering up enough courage to offer a meek smile. Deadpool had a short knife in his hand and was skilfully twirling it around his fingers as though it wasn’t anything sharp that could possibly kill a human being if buried to the hilt in the right place. The thought of that made him shiver.

“What a nice name.” There was the low rumble of a chuckle from him, and Peter felt rooted to the spot. He knew that the knowledge of one’s name was powerful, but he hadn’t actually been in the situation before. He felt absolutely, positively terrified.

He knew for a fact that Deadpool would take it the wrong way if he fled. Since the pamphlet held Deadpool’s name (of which he was sure, judging by the underlying threat he used in his voice when he talked), him killing Peter  and everyone else he was related to would be justified, since he would have a reason to silence him.

Yet he wasn’t making his move. He didn’t need to, to get his point across.

It was all maddening.

“Come to take a look around the apartment? I have a feeling that I’ll be saying ‘ _me casa es su casa’_ to you very, very, _very_ soon.” He tilted his head to the apartment, his hands never ceasing to spin the knife in his hands.

Peter closed his eyes. _Think of Aunt May. Think of Aunt May. Aunt May, Aunt May…_

“Alright.” He managed a stronger smile. Deadpool winked at him and opened the door.

Feeling like he was about to enter a coliseum gladiator style, his heart pounding against his ribcage, he crossed the threshold and entered the lion’s den.

* * *

 

The first thing that hit him about the place was that the moderately-sized unit was sparsely taken by furniture. The living room that they entered only had a big yet old TV set, with some CDs and DVDs scattered here and there. The couch looked worn to the point that one spot was permanently sagging. There was a long table, filled with scratches possibly from a small knife, mere doodles or a game of x-o’s, even little hearts with names inside, albeit always crossed out. He turned to the corner where a small mountain of empty take-out containers and crumpled papers were haphazardly piled. The dining room was seen through the living room, and althought the dining table and the counters were clean, there was a pile of used forks and spoons and some plates, all just waiting to be washed. The door to the bedroom was closed. And there was this conspicuous door that looked heavily locked.

“I didn’t have time to tidy up all the way, since you said you’d be here in five minutes,” Deadpool grumbled, and placed the knife down, then sat on the sagging spot on the sofa. He motioned to Peter to do the same.

Peter nodded and sat down on the other end of the couch, not making any unnecessary movements. He knew how unpredictably dangerous Deadpool could be if rubbed the wrong way. The mercenary pushed up his mask up to his nose. Peter was used to seeing the scars around his mouth and chin, because he had been on patrol when he usually bumped into Deadpool, and he had taken breaks with the mercenary, with the both of them eating Mexican food.

“That’s new,” the other mumbled, and Peter snapped into attention.

“What is?”

“Usually when I push my mask up, they’d start screaming or staring.” Deadpool raised an eyebrow – even with little movements such as those, it was clear to see under the mask – and Peter swallowed.

That’s right. Deadpool didn’t know he was Spiderman. He neither had the proof nor the reason to associate Peter Parker to the hero swinging around in webs all over New York. He felt a small flutter of hope in his chest that Deadpool at least didn’t know. But this turned into dread when he realized that he had to be extra careful not to let him know.

To cover up his fumble, he coughed into his hand. “Well, er, I thought it would be rude to do any of those, let alone both.”

“Hm.” The mercenary pursed his lips, possibly weighing up his answer if it was valid. After a minute, he smiled. “I like you already. Name’s Deadpool, but I think you already know that.” He tilted his head. “And yes, my real name is Wade Wilson.”

“You’d give that out so easily?!” Peter squeaked in surprise despite himself.

Deadpool – _Wade –_ shrugged in reply. “I’m not linked to anyone deep enough that’s _not_ a super, so no one can use anyone to blackmail me. Parents dead, no siblings, no love interest, I’m pretty much flying solo. Names really don’t matter.”

Peter bit his tongue to stop himself from saying what was on his mind, but then again, the mercenary had a point. What was the harm if that was the situation?

“Anyway, enough about me. I’m pretty sure you won’t be going anywhere since you’re scared and I know your name, and you know full well what I do and how good I am at it.” Peter could only nod, and Wade chuckled. “You can call me Wade. I’m going to call you Peter. Or Pete. Or Petey. No Wadeykins. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me more about yourself.”

Peter blinked in surprise. “Uh – “

“Name?”

“P-Peter Parker?”

“You’re not sure of your name?” Wade raised his eyebrow again, amusement in his voice.

“T-That’s not what I –“

“I know, I know, just messing. Age?”

“21.”

“And here I thought you were fucking jailbait.” The mercenary barked out a laugh, which grew even louder when he saw that Peter’s cheeks had coloured an interesting shade of red.

“I-I’m old enough!”

“You look under age! Jesus, I got worried the moment I saw you at my door!”

That got his attention. “What? Why would you?”

“Nevermind,” Wade backtracked, then turned away – was he blushing? – and cleared his throat. “Sexuality?”

“ _Excuse me?!”_

“I need to know! Like, what if my roomie suddenly brings home a guy or a girl – “

“I don’t do one night stands!” Peter shrieked defensively. He could feel his blush creeping up to his ears. Oh God, why were they even talking about this?!

“Even so.” Wade smiled innocently. Expectantly. He repeated the question. “Sexuality?”

Peter admitted to himself that he actually didn’t know… correction, he knew the term for it, but he wanted to be extra sure. Peter looked away, puffing his cheeks out a bit. “I think I’m bicurious.”

“You _think?”_

“Emphasis on the _curious_ ,” he said, gaining confidence and a little bit of sass.

“And I thought _I_ had a smart mouth,” Wade mumbled and chuckled. “Alright. Hobbies? Studying? Work?”

Peter bit his lip. He couldn’t tell the Spiderman side of him. He had to go with his normal, boring self. “Hobbies are studying and taking pictures. I’m studying in the college nearby. And I work part-time at The Daily Bugle, y’know, sending pictures of Spiderman.”

That got the mercernary’s interest. “You know him?” he squeaked, a little bit excited. It rendered Peter at a loss on what to say, until his voice came back after five seconds.

“U-Uhm… yeah? Well, not on a personal level, I mean…” He sighed. “He knows who I am, and he agrees to let me take pictures of him, he knows what kind of rut I’m in…”

“So in short you’re buddies?” the other man grumbled, obviously jealous. At who, however, he wasn’t sure.

“Er… we meet on the occasion something big’s happening so… kinda?”

Wade nodded and sighed. “Alright, alright. I can deal with that. Though, is it okay if you’d sleep on the couch when I have Spidey in here? I wouldn’t want a camera around, either…”

Peter nearly choked. Wade laughed loudly and patted his back. “I’m kidding. No, just half-kidding. Anyway, are you really interested in the place? Moving in with me? I mean, the moving in is quite mandatory, y’know.”

“Yes, yes, I’m all for it!” He stood up. “I-I’m short on cash, but not that short, I, uh, got accepted into OsCorp as a paid intern, so…”

“OsCorp, huh.” Wade was nodding in an attempt to appear sage-like. Finally, he thrust out his hand. “Let’s shake on it, then… roomie.”

Peter bit his lip, and looked up at the other person. His lips were twisted in a knowing smirk, and he felt like he was making a deal with the devil (the red-and-black ensemble didn’t help in the slightest).

He sighed, hoping for the best but expecting the worst, and slowly shook his hand.

Wade smirked, and suddenly his hands were both on his shoulders. He pushed Peter down on the couch.

“Let’s set some ground rules, shall we?” he whispered in a low voice, still smirking, and Peter knew he was in deep, deep shit.

 

 


	3. A Day (Well, Almost) With Deadpool

* * *

Wade had given a total of ten rules, ten simple rules that theoretically made both of them comfortable, which was mainly just for bills, and responsibilities, food, curfews (“Non-existent!” Wade had cried.) setting up their ‘territory’ in the bedroom and bathroom, et cetera.

Oh, and about privacy. _Definitely_ about privacy.

“No touching of my weapons, no sneaking on my fake documents, IDs, disposable cell phones…” Wade enumerated, pacing back and forth. He didn’t even give him time to unpack. Peter was still there in the same spot for over an hour now, listening to his roommate prepping him on how not to disturb him.

“No complaining if my bed smells like tacos and/or burritos, I happen to _like_ that shit, and – “

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Peter finally snapped, his arms up to stop the mercenary from saying another word. “Just stop, okay, I get it; I do _not_ disturb you, under any circumstances!”

“What do you mean?” Wade seemed genuinely surprised. “Of course you can disturb me!”

“Well, I wouldn’t have any choice if, like, I slipped in the bathroom and got a concussion, or –“

“Or have a raging erection when you wake up,” Wade added, nodding to himself seriously.

“Yeah, that – “Peter’s trail of thought and word screeched to a halt. _“Excuse me?!”_

“I’ll do my best to relieve you, Petey-babe.” He winked – _actually fucking winked –_ at him. Peter had to suppress a groan.

“Can I continue the rule-grounding or whatever the fuck that’s called again?” Wade said, his flirty mood suddenly switching to an irritable one.

Peter nodded and held his tongue for as long as he could. Finally, when he was done, he had finally opened the bedroom door to him and actually helped him with his bags.

The bedroom wasn’t so bad, since there were two single beds pushed against opposite walls, with a bedside table that was actually placed at the head of the bed. There was also a desktop by the foot of Wade’s bed, while at the foot of his bed there was only a desk (which looked oddly new and the only unmarred furniture in the room). There was a window on the wall that they faced, but it was draped with a red and black curtain. The floor was carpeted, and there was a sizable bookshelf by Peter’s wall. There was also a big dresser by Wade’s side.

“Here we are,” Wade announced, with a motion of his hands as if he was the one who had built and decorated the room as it was. “Make yourself at home. Dresser’s here, if you want to geek out in your new home right away, go ahead, put your books on the shelf, got some outlets fixed on either of our sides so we wouldn’t be arguing over what goes into whose sockets –“ he chuckled at that – “and yeah, also bought a desk. Good thing you’re a student, it’ll help.”

“Wow,” Peter mumbled to himself, smiling. His dread about living with Deadpool slightly abated. At least the mercenary was civil enough. “Thanks.”

Wade was about to reply when his phone started ringing. Peter could just make out a few muffled lyrics, but it was enough for him to know it was a sped up version of Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl”, which amused him greatly.

“Woop, gotta take that.” Wade patted his pockets of his costume for his cellphone, then ducked out into the living room. Peter didn’t miss the shift in the voice when he said “Yeah, this is Deadpool.” in his best, no non-sense voice (which was quite intimidating, he admitted).

With Wade occupied, Peter thought it best to start arranging his things in the dresser they shared. He took out his shirts and pants, and piled them up neatly and placed them on the space Wade had cleared for him. He looked at Wade’s suits, full of clumsy yet strong stitches.  He put his underwear and socks in the underwear drawer, along with scarves and his beanie hats. He took out his laptop, then sat with his legs crossed on the bed, biting on his lip as he waited patiently for it to start up. He found an array of names of internet connections. One was named “StarkBitchXO”, another bore “Virus Detected”. Another was even better: “Get Your Own WiFi, This Isn’t A Free Country”.

He went out, carrying the laptop in his arms gingerly as he stepped out into the room. Wade was still talking to one of his clients, and was striking up a deal. He didn’t want to interrupt him. Luckily, Deadpool didn’t see him nor notice him coming out of the room.

“…me a profile of the target in my e-mail,” he was saying, holding a hand gun. He was sitting on the couch, in an intimidating pose, his cellphone pressed to his ear. “Yeah. I want everything you know… look, you’re really not in the position to ask me how long it takes,” he suddenly spat, then waited. “Double the amount… _No. Double the amount_ or it’s a no. _I don’t care!”_ He growled. “$300,000, or it’s no go. It’ll probably be done in a week since you said he’ll be visiting New York soon.” Deadpool stood up and paced, his head down, his other hand busy with the gun. After a few seconds, he smiled. “ _Very_ good. I’ll text you the bank details. I’ll only start when the payment’s done.” And he ended the call.

Peter’s pulse was thundering, he could tell. Someone was going to die, in a week’s time. He felt the familiar, overwhelming urge to stop Deadpool. But he couldn’t – to the mercenary, he was just an ordinary student-slash-photographer. He didn’t know Spiderman was listening to him.

Deadpool looked at Peter, then tilted his head. His demeanor changed entirely – from hostile and authoritative Deadpool to open, friendly, and crazy Wade. “Hm? Petey? What’s wrong?”

“Ah… err…” He bit his lip, and Deadpool took it as a sign to pluck the computer off his fingers. Peter’s eyes widened. “Hey! Give it!”

“Internet?” He asked, and placed the laptop on the table. Peter followed, reluctantly nodding.

“Uhh… yeah…”

“Here.” He clicked the ‘Virus Detected’ WiFi name, and typed the password, his fingers nearly flying across the keyboard with their speed. “Password’s wadeadpool11.”

“Why 11?” Peter asked before he controlled himself. "Thank you, by the way."

“I was Weapon Eleven,” he said nonchalantly, shrugging off his thanks and standing up to get some food from the old fridge.

Peter sat down slowly, looking at his computer. He at least wanted to know more about Deadpool, as to at least take note of his mannerisms, behaviour in certain situations, hell, even his back story to convince himself that he wasn’t crazy in thinking about living with a mercenary who was probably being hunted worldwide. “What does being Weapon Eleven have to do with anything?”

At that, Wade laughed. It wasn’t the boisterous bark of a laugh that Peter would always hear when he was Spiderman, with Deadpool on his heels trying to catch his attention while he swung away decisively. No, it was a small, slightly nervous, slightly humourless laugh.

“It means that the mutations of Weapons One up to Ten were _pooled_ into me,” he explained, straightening and looking up at Peter, whose eyes widened in shock.

“You mean…?”

Wade suddenly tilted his head to the side, and started mumbling. For a while, he did this, making small comments like, “But he has to know…”, “Come on, I’m living with him –“, “That’s highly inappropriate on the first day!”, and “Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up!” After that last thing, he shook his head and sighed. “Sorry. Uh. Voices.”

“Err… I understand,” Peter mumbled, although it actually showed on his face how scared and confused he was. Peter didn’t want to push, however, and Wade suddenly changed subject about new taco stands opening in the city, and of Spiderman, and of his weapons and his clients and whatever else he could think of.

Peter didn’t know what to say or do, so he just opened some tabs in his computer, particularly his e-mails, and checked for replies from The Daily Bugle on his pictures while he let his roommate ramble on. He was so engrossed with typing up a furious reply to J. Jonah Jameson about why his photographs of Spiderman fighting were returned with a big ‘rejected’ across them that he didn’t notice Wade disappearing into his room and suiting up until he tapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m going out,” he said, and Peter looked up at him. He was wearing a dark trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat over his red and black trademark costume. His holsters by his hips had guns. “To see a friend.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Should I stay up and wait for you?”

“Nah.” The mercenary laughed and shook his head. “Although that’d be terrific, like I’d come home all bloody and you’d be waiting like a good housewife with a pink frilly apron and I’d say, ‘Honey, I’m home! Sorry I’m late, work was murder!’” He laughed even harder and wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.

Peter blotted out most of his ramblings. “How will you get in?”

“I always leave a window open, don’t worry.” He patted his shoulder. “Right. I’ll be back soon, hopefully!” And he made a dash to the open window, and jumped without hesitation, leaving Peter staring after him for a good five minutes, wondering how on earth he ever came to decide that he’d live with the guy.

* * *

 

Peter had taken it upon him to clean the rooms as best as he could. Of course the heaps of trash had to go, and as he looked around the place better, he could see the numerous mountains of take-out containers (just how did this buff guy ever survive primarily on fast food take-outs?!) and bottles and crushed cans of beer and drinks. Being raised by Aunt May, he had known to at least sort the trash, and so he put the papers on one side, the bottles and glass and metal on the other, then heaved it out the hall and into the shared trash chute on each floor.

Then the second part – taking care of the dishes. He looked around for the dishwashing soap for a good fifteen minutes before he found half a bottle of the blue liquid thrown into a basket of haphazardly sorted cleaning materials. He set to work, scrubbing off the crusts and food particles from every piece of silverware or the rare plate or platter. Then he sorted them out evenly. He scrubbed the counter and sink as best as he could, then, finally satisfied, went to work on vacuuming the carpet in the living room. He finished in an hour, and after another trip to the garbage chute, he finally allowed himself a reward of a nice cold shower. One step into the bathroom made him tick a mental note to give it a good scrubbing the next day.

After getting a bit of rest and a bit of study time, he had fallen asleep on his bed. He had broken dreams, of Gwen and Uncle Ben, of Aunt May’s worried face, of his dratted previous landlord, and Wade. They were all looking at him as though he was some kind of freak, and they weren’t exactly subtle on their opinions.

He saw Wade suddenly bring his arm up, aiming his gun at him, screaming obscenities of lies and betrayal, and then –

…

Thump?

Guns don’t go thump…

There was a groan.

Peter heard a human groan.

He got up immediately, confusion washing over him at what he had heard, and at what he could see – or couldn’t. His room was pitch black, save for the steady blinking of his laptop on sleep mode. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the sleepiness. He pushed himself up and peered through the door into the living room just as he heard a door close.

“Wade?” he said in a fervent whisper. If it was a burglar and Wade was here, he couldn’t really change into Spiderman. He bit his lip and braved a step outside, and then another, turning his head this way and that. “Wade, is that y—“

Peter’s eyes widened at what he saw. There were bloody handprints on the open window, and small pools of blood on the floor, drenching a small part of the carpet, steadily going to the bathroom. Wade’s mask, severely burned, scratched, and torn to raggedy pieces, was on the floor as though unceremoniously thrown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it longer than my average chapter length because I have exams this week and the next week ;n; forgive meeeee uni sucks big-time ;n;
> 
> Also, again thank you for the kudos, comments, subs, and all that jazz *huggles*


	4. Tease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter gets teased and teases in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might make people squeamish with the gore descriptions! (Or the lack of skill in describing them!) So I'm sorry! Read at your own risk, babies~

* * *

 

Peter could practically hear Wade hissing, and he heard the faint sound of bones clicking under the skin. It made him sick to the stomach, and not in the sudden way, but in a way that was subtle, growing into a full-blown force that made him retch and dry-heave. He felt guilty being so pathetic when his condition was assumingly better than Wade’s right about now. And yet as he composed himself and tried to calm his stomach, Wade’s hissing stopped and from the bathroom, he called out to him.

“Pete?”

“Y-yeah?” he said shakily. “You alright, Wade?”

“Eh, you can say that.” There was a heavy thump, and some things Peter guessed were his and Wade’s toiletries clattering to the tiled floor. “As good as having six knives on your back, a broken wrist, several lacerations, and ooooooh, is that my spleen? Holy _shit_ , I haven’t seen it in so long! Also, I kinda sorta smell like barbecue, so I hope you had dinner, because I might’ve ruined it for you, and –“

“Do you need any help?” He interjected between his ramblings. He placed his head on the door’s cool surface, looking down at the carpet. “Err… do you have a first aid kit somewhere?”

Surprisingly, Wade didn’t reply. There was a scuttle and then silence once more. Then Wade unlocked the door.

Peter covered his eyes with his hand, knowing full well that Wade would have wanted to keep his face hidden (who the hell wears his mask around the house without any particular reason?). He opened the door and quietly slipped in. Wade was right – he _did_ smell like barbecue, smelling of burnt flesh _and_ fabric, and he almost slipped on something sticky on the tiled floor.

He hadn't heard any movement since he entered, and Peter gulped. “Uh… h-how can I help?” When the other man didn’t answer, he bit his lip. “Err… Wade?”

He suddenly felt a hand on his chin, tilting his face up. Peter sucked in his breath in a surprised gasp, and he could feel his cheeks heating up. He could feel Wade’s bulk of a form right in front of him, and he tried stepping back. “Wade, h-hey, wait—“

He felt his fingers getting pried away from his eyes, and Peter squinted up at him. “But y-your face –“

“Hm?” Wade tilted his head, showing him his… red-and-black mask?

He looked down at his body.

_Oh._

There were a _lot_ of open and bleeding wounds on the merc’s chest, stomach, arms, and legs. His costume was barely holding on to his body, and where it was clinging to his skin it was because of blood. His left arm was around his bleeding stomach, the wrist in an odd angle. It was a miracle Wade could still move so silently.

Peter blinked, and Wade laughed, the contours of his mouth visible even under the mask. “I have lots of extra masks, Petey-boy, don’t worry! You’re not gonna see this ugly mug for a _long_ time!”

“It's not that!” Peter defended and tried to swat away his blush. What the fuck? “I thought you’d have wanted to save face because you keep wearing your mask around, and, well…”

Wade pushed his mask up to his nose, and grinned. “You know, with you stiffening up like the way you did and blushing the way you did, I’d have kissed you.”

Peter nearly slipped on the blood. Again.

“Sit down, for fuck’s sake, I need to at least fix you up!” Peter grumbled, turning away from him, both to hide his face and to look for the first aid kit.

“Ooooh, are you  fixer? Like Fix-It Felix from Wreck-It Ralph?” He sat down obediently on the closed toilet seat, rambling as though his guts hadn't just made a horrible squelching sound that made Peter want to puke. “Can I be Wreck-It Ralph, then? Ohhh, but Fix-It Felix doesn’t end up with him, does he? How about that chick with the guns? _Oooooh,_ I can be her! Like, I mean, I’m bigger than her obviously, and I don’t have hair to dye white anyways, but I’ve got a big stash of weapons and guns that could make that bitch run for her game money!”

Peter let him ramble on as he finally got the first aid kit, and started to clean the wounds. Wade didn’t even flinch or waver in his steady slew of words when Peter got alcohol and betadine. In fact, the merc was the one who even righted his broken wrist, much to Peter’s awe (and obvious relief).

“ – and then boom, boom, boom goes the alien’s head!” Wade recounted, laughing. His voice resounded all around the small tiled room. Peter shook his head and leaned back for some air.

“What the hell happened?” Peter asked, exhausted.

“Uh…” The masked man looked away, and absently scratched at his chin. “Err… I kinda, sorta, broke into the Avengers Tower…”

“You _what?!”_ Peter shrieked, and Wade smiled apologetically, like a kid caught with his hand stuck in the half-empty cookie jar.

“Uh… yeah… but I didn’t steal anything! I only broke some things, and that was by accident!” He gestured with his healthy arm. “And I only needed their supercomputer, Weas couldn’t give me access to his since he was being an ass again, going on about how I stabbed him for the last Cheeto, but still –“

“ _Why_ did you break in to Avengers Tower?!”

“Uh, Earth to Parker? I just said so! I was just using their supercomputer!”

“For what?”

“Any info on that Arachne-Boy.”

“Spiderman,” Peter whispered, the blood rushing from his face. His knees buckled, and he had to lean back on the wall to catch his breathing. He closed his eyes and listened to Wade.

“ – I’ve seen your pictures of him, by the way, _nice_ shot of his spandex-ed ass! Really brings out the contours of those firm globes –“

“What do you want with Spiderman?” Peter finally asked, opening his eyes and squinting at Wade. He was in too much of a compromising situation.

Wade scrunched up his eyebrows, then raised them. “Oh, right! You’re buddies with the guy! Oh, don’t worry, he’s not the target I’m aiming for. Just looking out for him, trailing him, because I heard he’s on this ‘no killing’ spree and is much too friendly with the po-po and the men in blue don’t really know how to react, so…” He shrugged and leaned back as well. “I’m trying to trace his patterns, as well, so he doesn’t disturb me on my job.”

“ _Have_ you traced it? His patterns, I mean?” he asked, with a small voice. He was too nervous to even comprehend how he’d be able to stop the mercenary in the first place.

Wade blinked. “Ohhh, right. Yeah, yeah, I’ll give you the pattern after I’m done, so you can have more pictures of him.”

“What?”

Wade didn’t answer, and just stood up with a low, heavy grunt. “Aaah. Well, thanks for patching me up, anyway. I’ll just stay on the couch so I don’t mess up the bed.” And he started to limp his way to the living room.

Peter couldn’t find it in him to walk out just yet. He was going to be trailed by Deadpool, and he couldn’t trace him back to his own house, for fuck’s sake. Panic settled into him, first boiling in his stomach then going up to tighten his chest, then upwards and upwards all the way to his brain, where it screamed in agony, creating one hell of a headache.

When he finally did calm down enough, he packed up the first aid kit and went out of the bathroom. The blood can wait until tomorrow. His eyelids were starting to droop again.

He found Wade crashed on the sofa, flicking through TV stations too fast to be humanly possible. Peter stepped silently towards their bedroom, then subsequently flopped down on his bed. Screw the dried blood in his hands, he thought, as he felt his eyelids drop once more and didn’t fight the wave of sleep embracing him into the dark.

* * *

 

“Spidey! Spidey, yoo-hoo! Webcrawler! Oy! Webslinger? Helloooo?”

Peter tried really, _really_ hard to ignore Deadpool. He kept trying to lose him, making sharp turns into alleys and every so often swinging onto the roofs of widely-spaced apart buildings. The howling of the red-and-black clad mercenary in the streets, however, was too loud to even ignore. He could practically feel the hate of everyone in a three block radius for him. He was sure that if they knew where he was, they’d call the police on him for disturbing their sleep.

“Spiderman! Arachne-Boy! Uhh… uhhh, how about… oh! His Holy Spandex-ed Ass of Righteousness! Please, let down your awesome webs and make out with me!”

Peter internally groaned. Wait, that wasn’t him. There was another, older man from somewhere who, apparently, heard enough of him from Wade.

Resigned to his fate, he webbed Wade into a dark alley and dropped in front of him, cutting the mercenary off from his attempt at making a Romeo and Juliet parody of them both.

When Wade saw him drop in front of him, he stopped struggling from the webs and smiled. “Spidey! Heeeeey, baby-boy! How’s it hanging? Ahahaha~ Get it~ Geddi--”

“Will you please shut up, Deadpool?” he snapped, shooting web onto the merc’s mouth. “For God’s sake, people are trying to sleep, and I’m trying to protect people who are out and about!”

“Mrmph, hrmph!” The mercenary said, taking a small knife from his boot. He cut out the web from his mouth, coughing. “Ughhh, Spidey, that’s nasty! You know, a little warning couldn’t hurt –“

“Shut up!” He pinched the bridge of his nose, counting to ten like his Aunt May told him to do to calm down and to not hit something or someone near. When he finished, his shoulders slumped and he placed his hands on his hips. “What do you want?”

“A kiss?”

Webs shot from his shooters, pinning the bigger man to the wall with webs on his wrists and his ankles. Peter was about to turn around and get on with his patrol, but the next word from Deadpool’s mouth turned his blood to ice.

“Peter!”

He nearly had whiplash from the speed he turned around to face him. “What?!”

Deadpool squirmed as much as he could with glee. “Yeah! Peter, Peter Parker, right? Remember him? Official Spiderman photographer of that shitpile of a paper Bugle? We’re roomies now, can you believe it? He’s such a nice guy, too, and he’s _really_ cute, especially with those big glasses on and – “

 _I do?_ He thought, then he felt embarrassed at how his cheeks flared at the thought. _Stupid!_ Good thing he had the mask on, or he’d have the mercenary around his heels for two weeks. He cleared his throat, interrupting Wade’s ramblings. “Don’t hurt him, alright? If I hear you’ve harmed even a single hair on him –“

“Oooh, where’d this side of you come from?” Even under the mask and the dim light of the alleyway, the slight raise of his eyebrow was noticeable (how the fuck he does that, Peter will never know). “To be honest, it fucking turns me on! Is there a scandalous relationship that has stemmed from the hero-photographer relationship? Gasp! No wonder the Bugle's had it in for you! Suddenly, ' _Spiderman swinging'_ has an entirely different meaning --”

“Put a sock in it!” he shushed. “There’s no such thing! Peter’s just down in the dumps lately –“

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do my best to cheer him up. Hey! Do you think a surprise blowjob in the morning would help? Or do you think I could wear one of my dresses –“

“ _Don’t.”_ Peter stressed. He felt his cheeks, ears, and neck were on fire. He tried hard not to think of the surprise blowjob, not to mention Wade in a frilly dress. “I’m going now.”

“Goodbye kiss!” Wade huffed. “I’m still not free, y’know! And besides, it’s great motivation to not hurt Peter!”

“Is that blackmail?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and cocking his hip to one side. Deadpool looked away, suddenly squeamish.

“Uh…”

And then Peter got a brilliant idea.

“A kiss, hm. For Peter’s sake.”

Deadpool didn’t even see it coming. In a flash, Spiderman was in front of him, rolling their masks up, and leaning into him, their lips an inch away. Peter could _feel_ rather than hear his sharp intake of breath, and him stiffening in surprise, and –

Peter rubbed their noses together, then shot a string of web upwards and swung away.

He counted up to five, then laughed to himself mid-air as the sound of Deadpool cursing “ _whoever the **fuck** invented eskimo kisses!” _reached him. Of course he blatantly ignored the fact that his heart was racing inside him for the same reason Deadpool was swearing into the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shhhh don't mind me! I actually studied! ;o; But then my brain went "Meh" and became mush and it only functions properly if I'm reading Spideypool! ;a; Holy shit I hope I can write as well in my anthropology test tomorrow as I do with Spideypool hnnggg
> 
> Anyway, huggles and virtual snacks for all of you <3


	5. Pushing Limits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wade and Peter finally recognize the sparks, and Wade goes to friendly neighborhood Spiderman for help in pursuing his roommate.

* * *

Peter didn’t know that Deadpool, the world’s most infamous mercenary, would have a domestic side.

And a very weird way of showing it.

Wade would fuss on him nonstop when he’d gotten a small paper cut when he was trying to sort his files for school. He’d insist on making breakfast every day (Peter didn’t know he’d have enough of the taste of ‘genuine Canadian-style pancakes’ in less than a week). He’d ask Peter every day if he was okay with living with him, if he was troubling him a bit too much, if he’d have to cut down on the take out because he thought it would put Peter in an unhealthy state to study in.

Peter actually appreciated all his efforts, but he always found Wade looking at him when he thought he didn’t notice, and mumbling to himself – to his _voices –_ about what if Peter would leave, what if Peter would squeal, how he’d even last a week living with him, et cetera.

The younger man decided to _confront_ him, once and for all, about his self-hatred. Wade was actually very hospitable, and very fond of him by the looks of it. He’d look surprised if Peter laughed at his jokes, or smile very widely when Peter asks him about his guns. Once, when Peter had complained out loud about his boss’s maltreatment to Wade, the latter became silent, and had spoken with a hollow voice.

“It’s going to be okay, you know,” he had mumbled, as though not believing the words himself.

Peter had cracked a small smile for him. “Yeah… in the end, that’s what I always say.”

Three days later, word has it that Jameson had left the country for an indefinite period of time, ‘on a vacation’, he said. The Bugle would be run, as specified by Jameson himself, by his assistant, who was a good friend of Peter’s and knew how he was being beaten by Jameson and how unfair his treatment was.

Somehow this turn of events didn’t surprise Peter. He could only guess what had happened, but it must’ve been one hell of a threat if he made Jameson scamper off so easily. Then again, it _was_ Deadpool.

He texted Wade that he had made dinner and he was waiting for him before eating. After a few minutes, Wade crashed in through his normal entrance and exit way (the window), hollering. “Honey! I’m home!”

Peter rolled his eyes, but annoyance wasn’t there. He had gotten used to the acts of endearment he received. He decided to play along, teasing. “I’m in the kitchen with only an apron on, Wade.”

He heard Wade scamper as if he were a dying man running to his last feast. When the merc came into view, his face was painted with joyous disbelief, and his body almost _emanated_ hope. Peter laughed when he saw Wade’s face fall as he registered that, in fact, Peter _wasn’t_ wearing only an apron on and was fully clothed.

“Sike,” Peter chuckled, winking.

“I’m gonna make you pay later,” Wade grumbled, and sat down on his usual seat heavily. “Do you know how _hard_ it is to _get_ hard in this fucking suit? It’s like junior wants to get free but then it can’t and it’s crushing his dreams and --”

“I did _not_ need to know that,” Peter mumbled, looking away as he felt his cheeks starting to burn. He made a mental note to himself never to get hard when he was Spiderman.

Luckily, Wade was distracted by food to start the teasing. He was babbling on about his stake-outs and Spiderman. Peter had to hold down a chuckle when Wade would say he was a fucking tease.

“ – I mean, who the _fuck_ does eskimo kisses these days?” he complained, the insides of his half-eaten burrito threatening to fall everywhere. “Kids these days are more into make-outs! How about you, Peter, what do you say?”

“I… I don’t know…” he mumbled, surprised by the sudden turnabout of the conversation from Spiderman to him (which was one and the same for Peter, but two opposite ends for Wade). He chewed thoroughly and swallowed before answering. “I guess… I like eskimo kisses, too, it’s something real than those make-outs that could lead to sex but have no feeling whatsoever. For me, I wouldn’t mind make-outs, though… But I’ve never had one for a long time, so…”

“ _Well…”_ Wade’s voice went back to a teasing, subtly suggesting tone. Peter met his gaze and his cheeks flared again.

“W-What’re you -- ?”

Wade had gotten up from his seat across Peter’s and pulled him up on his feet. One hand snaked around Peter’s waist, one finger looping around one of the belt loops of his jeans and was steadily pulling it a bit lower. His other hand tilted Peter’s face up by the chin, and if Wade heard Peter’s sharp intake of breath, he ignored it.

He leaned forward, ignoring Peter’s lips, and he felt Wade’s hot breath ghosting over his exposed neck. “Want me to change that?” he whispered. “I can’t guarantee that I won’t hold back, and… that it would just be a make-out.”

Peter could only choke out a very intelligent “uh”. His head was spinning, and warmth spread out his cheeks, neck, chest, steadily going down his groin. Wade must’ve known what he was doing, because he planted a soft kiss on the soft flesh over his pulse, making Peter let out a soft moan.

Someone knocked on the door, and they jumped apart, surprised. When the knocking didn’t stop, Wade swore to hell and back before answering the door and scaring off some kids who were just trying to go trick or treating. Peter retreated back to his bedroom, hand clamped over his mouth and heart thundering in his chest. The spot where Wade’s lips touched him felt on fire. Wade didn’t disturb him for the rest of the night, thankfully, and Peter drifted off to sleep, confrontation forgotten.

* * *

 

Deadpool sighed – an uncharacteristically deep sigh. “Oh, Spidey… I think I’m in love.”

The man in red and blue spandex nearly choked on the taco he was eating.

Deadpool had caught him in one of his breaks, and Spiderman was in the mood to be nice to the guy, so he’d let the mercenary buy them tacos from his favourite taco stand, and they’d seated themselves on the rooftop of a building not so far from OsCorp Industries. The mercenary thought it best to actually tell Spiderman that he’s been thinking if he had fallen for his roommate.

“First off,” Peter said, his mask rolled up to his nose like Wade’s to eat. Good thing he didn’t have anything significant on his jaw and mouth area; otherwise, Wade would’ve recognized Peter in Spiderman and it would be hell. “You’ve been roommates for how long?”

“Two and a half weeks!” Deadpool huffed, as though he already knew his argument and considered it already ludicrous. “Get in with the times, Spidey! People marry after an accidental date!”

“They stay together for a shorter period –“

“That’s not the point!” The mercenary groaned and fell back, his back hitting the roof hard and making a loud thump. “Peter’s just… ahh, Spidey, you should’ve heard him moan –“

“That’s highly inappropriate –“

“But he’s just so cute and so caring and kind and he even laughs at my jokes!” He pouted. “I mean, Cable and Presbot and Weas occasionally laugh at my jokes, and you, too! But Peter asks about me, my guns, my jokes, and…” He paused, and he sounded breathless. “What do I do?”

Spiderman stood up then, crumpling the garbage they had and tossed it to Wade, who passed it easily and let it fall from the side of the building. He didn’t need to see to know that Wade’s half-assed shot would actually go into a bin. That’s how skilled he was. “Look, I’m not a relationship counsellor; I really don’t know what to do –“

“Do you think I should try and grope him?”

“Wh – NO!”

“How about continue where I left off –“

“Stop, stop, stop!” He nearly begged, flailing his arms. He pulled down his mask hurriedly before Wade could see the blush creeping on his cheeks and neck. “Look, whatever you do, _don’t_ rush him.”

Wade looked at him as though a lightbulb went on over his head. “D… Do you think he feels the same way?”

“What?!”

“Think about it!” The mercenary shot up on his feet and started pacing, hands shaking. “It makes sense! He wouldn’t have been so startled, and he wouldn’t have moaned! He’d have pushed me away, and –“

“Don’t get your hopes up, Deadpool,” he grunted, obviously annoyed at how helpless he was as Peter when he was around Wade without his mask.

The mercenary looked him over, then grinned. “Why, Spidey! I didn’t know I was hurting your feelings.”

Peter’s eyebrows scrunched together. “What are you – what – no!”

“Awww, Spidey’s jealous!” Deadpool made a little silly dance around him, cornering the younger man. “Are you? Do you want me? Ooooh, are you going to confront Peter about it? Like those Mexican telenovelas that involve too much screaming and dramatization and slapping and crying? _Ooooh,_ I like those! Can I wear the dress during the shoot –“

“FINE!” Spiderman exploded, throwing his arms up in anger. “I’ll help you with Peter!”

“YESSSSSS!” The bigger man barrelled into him and swept him off his feet, into a nearly bone-crushing hug. Spiderman tried to wriggle free, choking out that he didn’t have a healing factor as fast as Wade’s, and that broken ribs would be hell for him when he’d swing back home to wherever he was staying. The mercenary mercifully put him down, and Peter’s ribs hurt a bit when he gasped in a huge breath but it was okay after a few minutes. He realized that Deadpool had been talking since his feet touched the ground.

“ – dozen flowers be enough? Oh God, I don’t know any songs to sing him!” He was wailing. “Oh, God, I need a band! A mariachi band with everyone wearing Deadpool masks and moustaches! Ah, yes, that would be perfect!”

“…What are you talking about?” He asked, confused.

“Spidey, keep up with me! I need that romantic vibe thing! Throwing stones against the window would do the trick!”

“…You _live_ together,” he stressed. “Won’t that, like, kill the mood?! Besides, you’ll just see each other at home, why not surprise him then?!”

There was actually a very loud groan of despair from the bigger man. “Romanticism is _not_ dead, and so am I!”

“Those two aren’t related.”

“ _Romance et moi sommes un,”_ Deadpool huffed. Peter looked at him strangely for what must’ve been a long time, because the mercenary started squirming uncomfortably. “Would you _quit_ that?! You act like you’ve seen a fucking ghost.”

“I never knew you were bilingual,” Spiderman mused, thoroughly impressed.

Deadpool laughed. “Baby-boy, I’m _multilingual.”_ He chuckled to himself. “Just like something else…”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Before Peter could make up an intelligent reply, Deadpool yanked him across the roof, towards what he could recognize was the direction to their apartment. “Come on, let’s map out the plan! God, I hope Peter’s not at home, I better make sure.” He pulled out his phone from his numerous pockets and pressed a number, since he had Peter on speed dial.

Spiderman ducked into an abandoned building some ways away, excusing himself that he had to ‘mentally get ready for the mess that was Wade’s room’, or so he made up. He made it to ‘safety’ just in time – his phone had started to ring. Peter pulled his phone out to look at the picture Wade had somehow set as the caller ID, and Peter was too lazy to change it.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. This was going to be more work than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Romance et moi sommes un" -- Romance and I are one*
> 
> *I'm sorry I do not know French; if anyone's literate in French, can you guys tell me if it's right? ;a; omg
> 
> 2 more exams hell yeaaaaa
> 
> Also thank you sososososo much for all the comments and kudos and hits and the encouragement for exams you guys are the best ;a;
> 
> Hopefully I can write up the next chapter this weekend! ;a;
> 
> P.S. The something else that's also "multi" pertains to deadpool's pansexuality


	6. On Thin Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter (as Spiderman) treads carefully on the ground around Deadpool as he gallivants around town (and into their shared apartment).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! Here's the newest update, I hope you like it! c:
> 
> Thank you for all the comments you've been really helpful aaaaaaaa <3
> 
> (also holla at me I got a 75/80 in that anthropology exam haaaaaaaaaaaa)

* * *

Deadpool was still calling him. Peter’s heart drummed relentlessly inside his chest. He rolled up his mask, took three deep breaths to calm down, then answered.

“Hullo?” he mumbled, feigning fatigue and a tone of misery. Damn, he should've been an actor. “Mmm, who’s this…?”

“Petey-boy, you okay?” The voice on the other end was tinted with worry. “Where are you?”

“Wade, is that you? I’m overtime at OsCorp…” he mumbled. “So sleepy… Haven’t had coffee…”

“Shit, baby-boy, want me to pick you up? Doubt Osborn appreciates slackers on the job, even if you were his childhood friend and/or an intern.” Peter felt a small swelling in his chest. Wade was genuinely concerned. “I’m near the building, actually, it looks real shiny. Want me to pick you up through the front door, or at the floor where you are? Also, I’ve got Spidey right here with me, I’m sure he won’t mind swinging us home –“

He suddenly yawned – which, this time, wasn’t acting. “No, no, it’s fine… I’m gonna head home in an hour, I guess… Don’t wait up, okay? I’ll just pass dinner…”

“You sure?”

“Yes… Thanks for the concern.”

Deadpool chuckled at that. “ _Please,_ baby-boy, I wouldn’t want you to sleep on me while we’re doing the nasty.”

“That would make it nastier,” he laughed weakly. “Gotta go now. See you in the morning, probably; I think I’m gonna pass out on the front door.”

“Then take care, babe, or I’m gonna do it for you.” Wade made an obnoxiously loud kissing sound before ending the call.

Peter stared at his phone, a slight feeling of horror sinking in. Was that not… _flirting_ with Wade? He coughed loudly and put back his phone, a shiver running down his spine. Not that he was disgusted by Wade, far from it, actually. But it was that he had been snarky enough to even display interest in the other man – interest that Peter could’ve _sworn_ had not existed a mere two and a half weeks before – that surprised him to no end.

He leaned against the wall, ignoring the fact that it was dirty and grimy and had the faint smell of piss, trying to gauge if he liked Wade _that_ way. Hell, he didn’t even know he _swung_ that way!

‘For Christ’s sake, this’d be comedy gold for him,’ he thought to himself. He shook his head, as if that helped remove the thought from his head, just in time that a bulky figure dropped into a controlled roll from the broken window. Deadpool stood up, seemingly happy for some reason, but this was gone almost instantly with a grimace and an overly-done action of pinching his nose closed.

“ _Ugh!_ Spidey, when you said you wanted to ‘prepare yourself mentally’ for my crib, I didn’t think you’d be meditating while taking a piss!” He whistled and backed away. “ _Man,_ that stinks!”

“Idiot, I didn’t take a piss,” he fired at him, annoyed at Deadpool as though he was mocking his confusion about his feelings simply by existing and standing a few feet away. He pulled his mask back down and sighed. “So? Is Peter at home?”

“My baby-boy’s working overtime, can you believe it?” It was supposed to be impossible, but a big man such as Wade managed to _swoon_ like a Disney princess in one of those shows for kids that demands over-acting skills. “He’s probably busting that cute, cute ass – oh no! I’ll have to massage it when he gets home, I –“

“I don’t think Peter will appreciate that very well,” he stressed each word, pushing himself off from the wall and shoving Deadpool to the window. “Come on, come on, we don’t have all day.”

“Oooh, Spidey, don’t stop!” The mercenary swooned yet again, and Spiderman had to use his super-strength to actually hold him upright. “Manhandle me more, _por favor!_ ”

“You know, if you’re gonna act like this, Peter won’t appreciate it very much,” he mused, and Deadpool almost instantly extricated himself from his arms, dusting his suit as though Peter got germs all over it.

“Ugh! Spidey, don’t be a home-wrecker!” He snarled, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m loyal to Peter, so don’t get in the way!”

“Right. I’m rolling my eyes under the mask right now.” He said, knowing full well the other man couldn’t see it. “Now go. Lead the way, before Peter comes home.”

“Roger!” And the mercenary tumbled out of the window – down into the alley, with no second thought whatsoever.

Peter sighed, and followed after him, albeit with more grace. For example, he landed on all fours with a soft thud, while Deadpool was realigning his dislocated shoulder.

“Are you _never_ going to stop that?” he snapped as the alley they were standing in echoed with an ominous crack, and Deadpool swung his arm out to test it.

“Hm? No, it’s fun!” He defended, laughing and swinging his arm around like it was some sort of side-propeller. “See?”

“Peter wouldn’t let you keep up with this self-destructive behaviour.” He placed his hands on his waist, trying to appear authoritative.

Deadpool just groaned. “Oh, what’s it to you? You act like you know Peter to the core –“

“I _would_ know Peter better than you, yes!”

“ – But you haven’t seen him with tousled hair, chin on the pillow he’s hugging with his arms, his back exposed to the light, and his Spidey boxers hanging a bit too low, but still not enough for my liking, his blanket wrapped around his legs, and –“ Deadpool sighed dreamily. “Man, I’d tap that _so_ hard.”

Peter felt blood rush immediately to his cheeks and neck. He was silent for a few seconds, caught up with making up scenarios of what Wade must’ve seen, thought, felt, when he saw him like that, but apparently his silence was worrisome for the mercenary. “Yo, Spidey, what’s up?”

“N-Nothing.”

“Is the picture of Peter having Spidey boxers turning you on?” He waggled his eyebrows under the mask suggestively (how Wade makes those quirks visible even with a mask, he’ll never know).

“What – no!” He growled. “Let’s get on with it!”

“Fine, fine! So demanding!” He huffed. Wade placed his hands on his hips. “But! I can’t swing from building to building like you do.”

Peter could feel the blush that was dominating his face under the mask suddenly seep out. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

* * *

 

As a matter of fact, Wade _had_ been suggesting what he was suggesting.

“ _Woooooooooooooooohoooooooooo!”_ Deadpool was howling, legs around Peter’s torso, one arm on his shoulder, the other fist-pumping into the air. “ _This is the best day of my liiiiiiiiiiife!”_

“Will you _quit it?!”_ Spiderman yelled, as he narrowly made a turn round a building.

The mercenary, almost ten inches taller than him and obviously bigger and bulkier, was hunched over him like some chunky cape two sizes too big, hollering at passersby about how _fucking awesome_ it feels swinging around New York City. Although he seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much than was necessary and a lot too much to be appropriate at this time of day, the thought of him actually hampering Spiderman a little bit didn’t even cross his mind. Sure, Spiderman had super-strength, which helped him support Wade on his back (thank the gods), but that didn’t mean the laws of physics would suddenly bend to their will. Inertia would always try pulling them a little bit harder and longer than what Peter liked and was accustomed to, but he just sucked it up. He could see the rooftop of the apartment anyway.

“Whoooaaaa, there, mighty spider-steed!” Wade pulled on his mask as though it were reigns, and Peter felt it tugging loose from how he tucked it into the rest of his spider-suit.

He shrieked and landed in a collapsed heap on the roof. As soon as his hands weren’t busy directing web to hold them both, he tugged his mask down again. “Mind your own damn business!” he yelled.

“Whoooaaaa, chill!” Wade scrambled upright, hands up in the air. “Spidey, relax –“

“You nearly took my mask off!” he snapped, but he wasn’t angry. He was panicking. And by the way he was forcing ragged breaths in and out through his mouth, it was obvious.

“Spidey, relax, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –“ the mercenary reached out to him. “Look, it was an accident, and besides, even if I _did_ see your face (which would probably be hella cute, like 10/10 would fucking bang upside-down), I swear that I will never reveal your identity to anyone, even when faced with Death; which is practically useless, actually, since I don’t stay dead for very long, but hey, it lasts at least a couple of minutes and at least I get to see Death again, which would mean it’s a great day since we’d have tea and exchange kisses and stuff, and –“

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Peter gulped in breaths to try and steady himself more. He tried to think of the absurdity of exchanging kisses and having tea with Death, instead. “But trust me, you wouldn’t like what you see under this mask.”

At this, Deadpool laughed. “Karma’s a bitch.”

Out of all the possible responses to that, Peter didn’t expect this particular one. “What?”

“I steal your bit with being the friendly neighbourhood mercenary, and you steal my bit about not liking the thing under the mask.”

“What do you –“

“You’ve seen my scars while we were eating together, right?” he asked, suddenly serious. Peter didn’t know what else to do but nod. Deadpool sighed at that. “Yeah, well, I wish I could say it gets better the higher the mask goes up, but it doesn’t.”

“Deadp—“

“It’s fine, Spidey. I’m fine.” The mercenary shrugged and eased himself over the edge of the roof, then crawled down on almost invisible footholds so fast Peter had to wonder how many years he’s been doing this. The footholds stopped for him to actually ease into the window of their apartment.

Spiderman followed him, a lot more slowly than Deadpool did it. The footholds were actually quite small, and one inch too much to the left would make him grip the handhold a little tighter to right his balance. After a painstaking ten minutes, though, he finally got both his feet on the window ledge, and he gratefully swung inside the familiar living room. He pretended to look around. “Huh. I’m surprised it’s not a dump.”

“Peter’s been cleaning up, so I thought it’s probably time to dump the Leaning Tower of Pizza (Boxes! Ehe, see what I did there, Spidey?) and tidy up the place.” Deadpool shrugged and motioned to the kitchen. “Anything to wolf down?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“More for me!”

While Wade probably dived into the refrigerator for beers and cold pizza, Peter couldn’t help but twitch in annoyance. He felt oddly constricted being in his house with the suit and mask on. He couldn’t be seen being too familiar with where the things are, or how the things work, and it made him a thousand times more conscious with every single step. However, he _did_ get one upside in being the stranger – he got to ask questions.

“What’re those scratched names for on the table?”

“Hm?” Wade’s head appeared from the kitchen door, mask rolled up and a slice of pizza hanging from his lips. “Owrh, that.” He gulped down a bite and held up what was left. “Well, Spidey, those are my lovers.”

Peter masked the unmistakable twinge of jealousy in his chest with a snort. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me. _You_ have lots of lovers?”

“I happen to be very charming even with the mask – “

“I would’ve thought you would just fuck around and be over with.”

Deadpool just stared at him, and he wondered whether he had gone too far. He started to backtrack – immediately, before the mercenary’s mind switched to kill mode. “I-I’m sorry, I –“

“You dropped the F-Bomb,” he interrupted, awe in his voice.

Peter felt like a sack of bricks just crushed his trail of thought. “Um… what?”

“Spiderman cursed!” Deadpool made an exaggerated gasp and flailing his arms around. “What has the world come to?! My idol! Nooooooooooooooooo!”

 Peter was about to place a not so well-mannered retort on the mercenary's priorities when a familiar springing sound was heard. By the looks of it, Wade heard it, too. He took it quite badly, though.

Peter saw Wade drop the pizza, running at full speed toward him, screaming at him to duck, to not look back. He recognized what it was all about, and acted on instinct, holding his hand up. Even when the bigger man pushed him to the ground and made both of them land in a mess on the floor, Peter still caught the arrow from the crossbow that was Wade’s anti-theft security system hidden between glasses of beer on top of the shelf.

Deadpool’s hands were all over him – Peter tried very hard not to make a sound, for fear of his voice betraying him. “I’m sorry, I think my flailing triggered it, and oh God… Are you okay? Oh God, tell me you’re okay! Is that blood? Oh, that’s my shadow… FUCK!”

“I’m fine,” he managed to choke out, and showed him the arrow he caught. “See? I’m perfectly fine; now will you please be so kind as to, er… take off your hands?”

The mercenary just stared at him, and the arrow enclosed in his fist. He _didn’t_ take away his hands, and Spiderman could swear he almost heard the voices in his head arguing. It was short-lived, however, because he shifted, probably having decided to move; one of Deadpool’s hands found its way to his throat while the other pinned the hand holding the arrow down.

“Not even your _Spidey-sense_ could’ve sensed that,” Deadpool growled, their noses an inch apart. He tightened his grip, and Peter gasped out a strangled cry. “Just tell me _what the hell_ are you _fucking_ hiding.”

This was bad. This was very, _very_ bad.


	7. Late Night Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter happens upon Wade post-breakdown. But it's nothing some fluff can't ebb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm so sorry for not updating for a little over a month! Finals really drained me ;a; But good thing that's over!
> 
> I had meant to upload this before a month passed, but my first draft of this (which imo was better) was lost idk why ;a; From 1,525 words back to 291 ;A; I legit cried
> 
> But thankfully I got back on track >

There was a heavy silence between them, but it wasn’t _exactly_ silent. Not with Deadpool’s grunts, getting more impatient as his hand squeezed Spider-Man’s windpipe, and Spider-Man choking out half-formed words and trying to remember how to use his super-strength to pry Deadpool’s fingers off.

“Who are you,” Deadpool demanded, “And how do you know my super-secret anti-theft system?”

If he was going to die, Peter thought, he’d at least tell Deadpool who he was.

“…Peter!” he choked out finally, and Deadpool’s fingers slackened in surprise. Peter used this to his advantage and crawled away from him, coughing and massaging his sore throat. The mercenary looked at him, speechless, arms beside him.

“Peter… invited you in before?” Even with the mask, Peter could see that Deadpool was looking at him owlishly. That, or his mind really lacked oxygen and his thoughts were swimming between the lines of surreality. He tried shaking his head, but he got a bit cross-eyed and he just leaned against what he guessed was the couch to try and straighten the world out. But one thing was clear: he hadn’t admitted that Spider-Man _was_ Peter Parker.

Guilt twisted his gut into a shape a contortionist would be proud of. But he managed to lie through his teeth. Again. “Yeah… yeah, he did.”

“Jesus, Spidey, you should’ve told me sooner.” There was some shuffling, and he felt body warmth next to him. Some fingers lightly pressed against his throat, non-threatening. Peter looked at Deadpool, trying to gauge his expression, since the mercenary was uncharacteristically silent. “I’m so sorry,” he finally said.

“S’fine…” Peter mumbled and coughed. Deadpool went to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, and he raised his mask up to his nose and gulped it down slowly, trying to ease his throat. He put the glass down and leaned back. He felt Deadpool’s fingertips on his throat, and even though it was light, he jumped at the contact, and his reflexes went into overdrive. When he gathered his senses two seconds later, he was looking at the mercenary from the ceiling, hands and feet sticking to it for dear life.

“I… S-Sorry, I…” Wade seemed to crumple upon himself. Peter felt as if he had just swallowed a dead weight.

“No, no, no, Deadpool!” He amended, or at least tried to, jumping from the ceiling and onto his feet lithely like a cat. He pulled his mask down again. “Sorry, it… I’m just –“

“Tense, I know, you’ve got a reason to be.” He laughed. An empty laugh. Peter cringed internally as the sound filled up the room. Wade leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Look, I’m sorry…”

“I…” He couldn’t do this anymore. He had to leave. “I have to go.”

Peter realized that that was the wrong thing to say when Deadpool stiffened, and his gaze dropped from him to the gun holster by his hip. Something tingled inside him. It wasn’t his usual Spidey sense. It was his gut. And it clenched uncomfortably.

“See you around, then,” Wade deadpanned, still not looking at him.

“Deadpool, I’m so – “

“It’s fine.” The mercenary swatted his apology away. “I’m fine.”

Peter took none of it. “I’ll swing by tomorrow, is that good? I’ll… I’ll buy us dinner from Taco Bell, for Peter too. My treat.”

This time, Deadpool looked up at him, confusion evident even with his mask on. “You don’t have to – “

“I want to,” he stressed. “I _want_ to. Alright?”

“But – “

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I _will._ ” And this time he patted Deadpool’s head. And the older man stiffened in his seat. A thought weaselled into his mind that perhaps this was why Wade craved for affection – it was because he lacked it, all his life. Peter took a mental note of that before walking to the window. “And hey.”

“Y-yes?”

Peter looked back, and Wade was staring at him wide-eyed, disbelieving. He smiled under the mask.

“Have a good night.”

After three seconds, Deadpool seemed to shake off his surprise, because he let out a soft chuckle. “You too, Spidey.”

And with a small wave, Peter took his leave.

* * *

 

He arrived forty minutes later by the front door, yawning and a bit out of breath. He felt weary and tired, and his shoulders felt sore from carrying Wade while swinging around in the city. He groaned to himself as he unlocked the door, drawing out a whine of “Waaaade, ‘m’hoooome”.

But his Spidey sense tingled again, and he went into overdrive. He opened the door, and what greeted him was darkness. Which was odd in itself, because even when Wade left the house, it was always with at least one room lit. And there was a strange, rusty smell all around.

Panic settled in, and Peter more or less hugged the wall, trying to find the light switch. When he did, he told himself to stay calm, then switched the light on.

His fear materialized.

Wade was sprawled on the couch, a gun in his hand. Blood had flowed from where his head rested on the couch. His mask was pushed up to his nose, jaw slack.

Peter felt an intense need for fresh air, which he suddenly found scarce. He retched and coughed, covering his nose and forcing himself to breathe through his mouth. Was he the reason he did this? His eyes watered. No… Not again.

Faces swam through his mind’s eye – his Uncle Ben, gasping for air as he tried and failed to staunch the bullet wound; Gwen’s father, wasting his last breath seeing the vigilante unmasked, making him swear he’d leave Gwen out of this superhero business for her own sake; Gwen herself, her beautiful face warped in an expression of pure terror, her body hitting the ground a second too late after his web took hold of her, and she was still beautiful even if cold and broken, as broken as his promise to her father  – all dead because of something he had done.

And now…Now it was Wade.

He tried to hold down his emotions, enough for him to cross the room and place his hands on Wade’s shoulders. He could hear himself choking out broken whispers of “Wade”, telling him to wake up because _dammit, didn’t he have that fucking healing factor?_ He shook his shoulders, patted his cheek, touched his chest through his suit, kicked the gun away.

_Why wasn’t he waking up?_

“Come on…” He mumbled, feeling his eyes well up with tears, guilt racking him even more. What if Wade didn’t have that healing factor? He’d be the cause of yet another death, and this one was just because he couldn’t reply properly. “Wade, Wade, come on, please…”

He heard a small groan, and Peter looked down to see Wade ever so slowly closing his mouth, his face twisting as if he tasted something wrong in his mouth. “Fucking… five more minutes, mom…” he mumbled, arms going around Peter’s waist as though a pillow.

He didn’t even tell him off. He was just glad he was back.

“Hey, tiger,” he laughed quietly and closed his eyes. A solitary tear fell, and he wiped it away hurriedly. He was sure he was blushing by now. “I’m not your mom.”

“Pete?” Wade looked up at him, then hurriedly let him go, stammering. “O-oh, oh, shit. Uh… sorry, I uh…” He groaned and rubbed the nape of his neck, and Peter cleared his throat to let the blush die down.

“Wade, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just a headache –“

“No, I… I mean…” He bit his lip, suddenly at a loss for words. After a few seconds, Wade finally looked up at him. He must’ve just realized that Peter chanced upon him dead, and he hissed.

 “Oh God… I’m sorry, I didn’t… I’m sorry you had to see that – “

“I thought… something bad happened…” This time he couldn’t help it. He wiped another tear away, and cleared his throat. He was so, so, so tired but he wanted answers.

Wade seemed to panic at the sight of him crying. “H-hey, don’t cry now, baby-boy…”

“But you… I went home to you dead…” he mumbled and looked up at him, suddenly scared. The anxiety, the insecurity of being at fault for someone’s death, threatened to overwhelm him and push him down on his knees. “If it weren’t… for your healing factor, I… I don’t know what…”

The mercenary just looked on, emotions conflicting obviously with his dark mumbles and his expressions. Finally, he leaned forward and pulled Peter to his lap. “C’mere.”

“Wade…?”

“Shush.”

Wade’s arms were around him again, and Peter just now realized how he could easily fit in them. A gloved hand stroked his hair, lulling him to calm down. The young man just sighed and slowly his shivers and quiet sobs dulled to easy breathing. Even after Peter looked up at Wade to tell him that he was finally okay, the mercenary didn’t let him go, and only hugged him a little bit tighter, a small  “hmm” rumbling in his chest.

Peter just let him, needing the warmth and comfort after the exhausting day. He figured it was tiring for Wade, as well. If he could calm him down by being there, he’d actually be alright having Wade cling to him while he read a book or watched TV. It was actually kind of nice.

“I still gotta wash off the blood, y’know,” Wade broke the silence, after around half an hour just staying like that. Peter looked up at him and he saw a sheepish smile on his face.

He could only smirk. “I like this. Let’s stay like this for another half-hour?”

“But… the blood…”

“What about it?”

“Doesn’t it trouble you?”

“Well, yeah.” Peter made a face, chuckling. “But I’m too tiiiired…”

Wade laughed. “If we don’t get you to your bed, we’ll fall asleep right here and now.”

“Honestly, I don’t mind.” And Peter was surprised to hear such sincerity in his voice, knowing for himself that he really _didn’t_ mind falling asleep sprawled over Wade, even if the other was covered in dried blood.

The mercenary looked genuinely shocked, as well, but when Peter didn’t try to backpedal, he just smiled and eased them down the couch so they were both lying down on their sides, facing each other. Peter used Wade’s arm as a makeshift pillow, arms curled between their chests, before he closed his eyes, sighing contentedly. Wade plucked the glasses off his nose with his free hand before it lazily draped over his torso.

“Peter?”

“Hmn…?”

“You’re cute.”

“Don’t make me have second thoughts on sleeping with you on the couch, Wade,” he teased, and the older man just chuckled.

“Alright, alright, fine…” Wade hummed for a couple of minutes before he started again. “Wait, so does that mean you’ll sleep with me in bed, too?”

Peter’s brain was too sluggish to even say anything flippant. “When the need arises, sure.”

“And that would be when?”

“Well, we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

Wade didn’t answer for a few seconds, then Peter could hear a soft “Yeah, we will”, before he felt Wade pull him just a bit closer to himself and nuzzle his face in his unruly hair.

Peter just yawned and only had time to say a muffled “good night” before he fell asleep.

He must’ve dreamt up the soft “Good night, Peter” he heard, along with the soft kiss to his forehead that he felt. Yeah… he must’ve. Because when he woke up the next day still pressed against Wade, who was snoring peacefully, arm wrapped around tight, he thought that the action would have been both appropriate and absurd in their situation.

 However, he dismissed the thought from his still sleepy brain and nuzzled closer to the mercenary, determined to get a few more hours of warm sleep, the likes of which he hasn’t had for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up for the angst with the tooth-rotting fluff >o


	8. Itsy Bitsy Spider...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent drops by to warn Wade of impending danger to New York's skyline swinger.
> 
> Peter has the misfortune to eavesdrop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I'm so sorry this is shorter than usual! I had major writer's block, plus my birthday at the end of January and this bad flu has been killing me ugh ;~; forgive me /3

* * *

After that night, things significantly changed for the both of them. Peter vaguely remembered that after they woke up from that day on, they’d touch more often (but no more than what was appropriate for two manly men rooming together! Ha! Ha!). They had this routine that every morning Wade would ruffle Peter’s hair, awake or asleep, and Peter would hit his shoulder. When they’d get home and watch reruns of _Golden Girls,_ they’d sit together on the couch. Wade would have his legs resting on the table, only wearing sweatpants and a singlet (because he had already trusted Peter with his scars), and Peter would lie down on his side, head on Wade’s stomach as they both munched on bowls and bowls of popcorn.

As Spider-Man, he’d usually meet up with the mercenary as well. He’d graced him with a few nights of team-up that made Wade extremely happy (“Don’t tell Peter, but I have the strange urge to kiss you right now.” “Please don’t.”), and the few nights stretched into weeks, and even as the masked vigilante, Peter had been extremely comfortable with the Merc. To his credit, Wade was on his best behaviour almost 98% of the time (the remaining 2% would be the times him and Peter would have ridiculous fights that encompass the whole goddamned city at 3 AM because Peter unknowingly ate the last quesadilla), and, thanks to Spider-Man’s ‘no killing’ agenda, had Wade begrudgingly using hand-to-hand battle techniques during their close calls.

When Peter’s final exams loomed ever closer, he excused himself from vigilante business and visited the library and the nearest Starbucks before going home. He’d sometimes buy Wade some coffee, too (he’d noticed that Wade always takes his coffee black, and almost always scalding hot). If Wade was out, he’d leave all his stuff behind and go patrolling for a few hours. He’d be itching for another fight or two, but he’d force himself to go back and study. And show to Wade that, no, Peter Parker does not have a double life and there was absolutely no reason to suspect he was a masked vigilante travelling around New York in webs and a skin-tight spandex.

Sometimes, however, Peter found himself thinking about confessing to Wade about who he really is, and what he really does when he’s off late at night. He was only waiting to have the perfect moment to interject that one small yet important fact. He wondered how Wade would take it. He hoped he’d take it well.

To Peter’s relief and annoyance, Wade was distracted with something else.

“So, Petey,” he said, a plastic bag of chimichangas on a table he set up between their beds. Peter was hunched over the desk Wade bought him, which was laden with books about biology and chemistry and, as Wade colourfully described it, ‘nerdy shit that made the science side of Tumblr go crazy’. Peter looked up from the heavy tome he had borrowed from the library about the different species of spiders local to the Amazon (Peter snorted at the irony as he had checked it out, to the librarian’s chagrin).

Wade himself was lying on his stomach on the bed, reading what appeared to be three comic books at once. Peter frowned. Where had he gotten room to hide those from him from the general clean-up he did? And why didn’t he share? Totally uncool.

“What?”

“Do you think my butt looks big?”

Peter laughed and shook his head, not even bothering to look at him. “You sound like a teenage girl. Why the fuck would you ask that?”

“To know if you liked big butts or not.”

“What?! Why?!”

“Because if you like big butts, then you cannot lie~” he started singing, and Peter snorted and let him be.

After a few more minutes, he restarted the conversation.

“What’s your favourite color?” he asked seriously, looking up at him with his mask rolled up to his nose. Peter didn’t flinch whenever he saw Wade’s scars, although he didn’t inquire about them. He figured he’d tell the story in his own time.

Peter pushed the glasses further up the bridge of his nose, resting his elbow on the page he was in. He looked at Wade, trying to gauge what the question was for. Wade just looked back, pretty serious even when his legs swung and he twirled an invisible lock of hair.  

“Why?” he finally asked, failing to keep his amused smile to himself.

“So I can paint my nails, duh.” Even with the mask, Wade managed to show he was rolling his eyes. ‘Spidey could learn some tricks from him,’ he thought. “It’s a surprise.”

“Erm…” He rubbed his neck nervously. “Red.”

“Ah, so you like red?” Wade smirked and jumped from his bed to Peter’s, making both of their springs (along with Peter himself) squeak in protest. The big man was now sitting on the edge of the bed behind him, cross legged.

“Yeah, yeah, I do.” He gulped and turned back to the book he was reading, trying not to be too distracted by Wade’s breath prickling the back of his neck. “I-I’m going back to study –“

“Screw academics, you look _tired,_ baby-boy.” He felt and heard him chuckle. “Boxes tell me you’ve got tense shoulders and muscles. Do you work out? I never see you work out. Then again, I see you’ve got a skateboard you use every now and then. Do you do parkour? Peter Parkour? _Hey, that’s a pun!”_

Peter couldn’t help but laugh and turn around to face him fully. “I’m just tired, Wade.” He winked. “Are you sleeping on my bed, then? I’m gonna sleep on yours, if that’s what happens.”

“Oooh, no.” Wade pouted and started pulling Peter to the bed. “You’re breaking the rules. The ‘Wade can sleep in any bed but Peter can only sleep in his.’”

“That’s bullshit, there’s no such rule!”

“I made it up. Like five seconds ago. Rule number 11.”

“That’s cheating!” Peter shrieked as he fell on top of the bigger man. He looked up at him, and Wade looked down at him, and then they both laughed. Peter could feel a deep rumbling in Wade’s chest when he did. It felt warm, to him.

“Stay like this for a bit, will ya?” Wade mumbled and started stroking his hair. Peter took off his glasses and closed his eyes with a sigh.

“Alright…”

He hummed a quiet tune, and Peter yawned and almost fell asleep. “Wade, stop…”

“Why?”

“I still need to study, you ass.” He laughed and tried to get up, but Wade’s arms were heavy around his waist. He didn’t even remember them snaking around his body in the first place. Was he really that comfortable with the merc now? “Lemme go!”

“You’re pretty strong for a twink,” Wade laughed. “White tells me it’s because of the parkour. Yellow says you’re a ballerina.”

“Why am I a ballerina?!”

Wade tilted his head to the side, then shrugged. “He says you’d look good in a tutu. Not to mention that you’re a totally manly ballet dancer in some of our AUs, and I’m a kick-ass hip-hop dancer and we make sweet, sweet flexible love --”

“Alright, that’s it.” Peter had had enough. He used a bit of his super-strength to go back to his chair by the desk, despite Wade’s insistence and whines and grabby-hands. “I’m not turning back until I’m finished studying, Wade.”

Silence hung over them, but Peter couldn’t concentrate even if he wanted to. Something else was tingling inside him. After half an hour of uneasy shifting on his seat, he finally looked around. “Wade, if your eyes are glued to my ass _one more time,_ I’m seriously going to shell out all your ready-to-fry burritos – “

He stopped, blinking in surprise, when he saw his empty bed. And an empty room.

He shouldn’t have felt pissed at the lack of attention, but he _did._ Which was odd, because he wasn’t in any position to actually demand attention from the other man. Besides, shouldn’t he be accustomed to Wade’s mood swings by now? He stood up and went out the room, but stopped halfway through opening the door.

“ – I come in?”

“Coulson, my man!” Wade was saying. He heard the front door swing open. “What is S.H.I.E.L.D. ready to offer me today? How’s Preston, by the way? She still rocking that mecha suit of hers?”

“Agent Preston is busy with S.H.I.E.L.D. business,” this Coulson man replied, not too curtly. “And there are no missions –“

“What?! Then what the fuck are you doing here if not for my wicked merc skills?!”

“ – but we have something to discuss about.”

“We do, huh.” There was an ominous click, and Peter couldn’t help it. He snuck a glance out the room. He saw Wade pointing a gun at the stranger sitting rather tense on their sagging sofa. “Care to refresh my memory on what exactly we have to discuss about?”

“It’s of a… spider-y nature,” Coulson replied carefully, and he swore he saw Wade flinch. Even a slight dip of the gun was enough.

He held it back up again. “Are you telling me to spy on Spider-Man?”

“Well, technically, no.” A sigh escaped Agent Coulson. “We’ve got rumors of someone who plans on contacting you to…  wash the spider out of the drain, so to speak.”

“…Spidey’s hanging out in the sewers again?” Wade asked, incredulous. “Man, and I thought that Connors guy in _The Amazing Spider-Man_ was already lesson enough _not_ to sneak around the city sewers –“

“I meant to kill him.”

Peter couldn’t believe his ears. He guessed Wade couldn’t, too, because he dropped the gun. It clattered noisily on the ground. He doubted the safety was on, and he praised whatever higher being there was that the gun didn’t fire into poor Coulson’s leg.

“…Oh.” Wade mumbled intelligently. Then he shook his head. “I still can’t process why you’re here.”

“Let’s just say I’m here to make sure you don’t accept the job,” the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent deadpanned, looking at Wade in the eye.

The Merc hummed. “That’s stupid, y’know. _You’re_ stupid. I’m a mercenary, and, as your beloved Black Widow once spat, my loyalty goes to the highest bidder. She said it like I was scum, you know. That hurt!” He feigned it accordingly, placing a hand on his chest and looking dismayed. “As though she knew better! Anyway, if he offers me some bills, who am I to say no?”

Coulson seemed to expect this, because he only nodded sagely and pulled out a check. “How does one hundred grand sound?”

Wade was clearly unamused. He had his arms across his chest, defiant.

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “A month. Until this anonymous bidder is discovered by S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents.”

“Coulson, you’re robbing me blind. This baby mission could only last one, two months tops. My flat rate is one-fifty grand, and I get those within the week of calls.”

By now the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent looked apprehensive. Worried. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, and one of his hands slowly balled into a fist. “I do apologize, but one hundred is our final bid. However… we could… also offer a _temporary, temporary_ membership to the Avenger –“

“ _Now_ you’re talking business! Sign me up!” Wade shrieked like a boy who just discovered the Santa Claus was real and was going to give him the sickest jet ski in the market.

Coulson, who looked partly relieved and partly tense, gave him a paper to sign. “On the dotted line, Wilson –“

“I am _soooo_ going to sign with my trusty red crayon.”

Peter shut the door to their bedroom. To hell with it only being 9 o clock in the evening and he hadn’t had dinner yet. He turned off the bedroom lights and started eating the bag full of chimichangas Wade had left on his bed.

After the front door swung shut, Peter shut his eyes tight and pretended not to hear the confused grunts Wade made on the other side of their bedroom door when he saw it was locked. What was he thinking? The mercenary would probably blow his head off after blowing the hinges off the bedroom door for locking him out. Hell, he’d probably duct-tape several packs of C4 to Peter’s body just for finishing his bag of chimichangas.

No. He didn’t want anything to do with Wade for the moment. He needed to get away from the house. From S.H.I.E.L.D.

_He needed to get away from Wade._

In under three minutes, he was in his Spider-Man suit and was swinging out the bedroom window. Wade couldn’t bother him by this time.

* * *

 

He had been oh, so wrong.

“Rough night?” Spider-Man greeted, trying not to groan out loud when he heard the mercenary drop in unceremoniously (as always) beside where he sat on the ledge of an apartment complex. His tone was noticeably a bit unwelcoming, though – something Deadpool wasn’t keen on ignoring.

“Chill, Spides, I’m not stalking you,” he managed to say before flumping down next to him, adding, “Not anymore, anyway.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He looked away, and for once in all the time they spent together, in suits or out, a heavy, awkward silence settled between them. Even the occasional mumblings from the Merc was absent now. Peter found his tongue heavy in his mouth, burdened by the lack of words. The silence was deafening, after being with Wade almost 24/7. It was maddening. He needed to do something. To say something. _Anything._

“Hey.”

Peter looked up, and Wade did the same. Did they just say the exact same thing?

“Uhm,” Peter laughed awkwardly. What the actual fuck. “S-sorry, I, go on ahead – “

“N-No, no, you go first,” the mercenary insisted.

Peter was again at a loss for words. What was he even going to say? What the hell was he thinking? He bit his lip under the mask, then blurted out, “I’m going away for a while.”

He didn’t know what to take of it, but surely Wade stiffening to an oddly still position wasn’t anything good. Peter urged on. “I just, you know, have a lot to do, and… it’s starting to break my back, and… I need to rest.”

“Right.” Wade nodded. Was he imagining it, or was Wade’s voice suddenly empty? “When do you have to leave?”

“Right now, actually.” He suddenly stood up, already regretting yet another lie he’d have to be careful to uphold so as not to be caught red-handed. He was already getting ready to turn and swing the hell out of there. “Well, see you in a few weeks, big guy.”

And before Wade could tell him to ‘wait’, he shot a string of web and jumped off the ledge. What was he thinking, befriending a mercenary like that? Who’d gladly take assassination cases just so he could buy out a chimichanga stand? Who’d gladly get minced if it meant killing everyone in a five mile radius? Who’d categorize unnecessary killings in the folder labelled “BIG OOPSIES” before never thinking about it ever again?

Spider-Man wasn't a friend anymore, nor an ally, nor a teammate. He was just another name inching dangerously into the 'to be killed' list. No. Peter won't be waiting until that happened.

He couldn’t remember how he got home, or if he even took off his suit and mask. He only remembered climbing through the window, collapsing on the bed, curling up in a ball under the covers. Someone was going to contact Wade to kill him. It was best not to tell him his secret identity, as originally planned. He fell into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of dark shadows chasing him into cold, dark alleyways that seem to have no end.


	9. Blast from the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter pushes the wrong buttons, and the past comes to sucker-punch him twice in retaliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for posting an update once each month ;a; uni is killing me. Good news is that my finals are approaching (not really good news but yes really) so hopefully after the term's over I can go back to posting chapters every week or every other week!

Three days afterwards, New York found itself restless wondering where the swinging vigilante disappeared to all of a sudden. The Bugle, credit to those who were favoured by Jameson and had the misfortune to stay in business while their boss was away, started pulling out the big guns and the conspiracy theories on Spider-Man.

Peter wasn’t surprised by this. Not at all. In fact, he got exasperated when they only put out the gossip-worthy articles on the third day of Project No-Show.

Peter was surprised that he couldn’t care less.

For once, he was being selfish, which made him cringe everytime he thought about it on the first day. New York needed him. They were his people. It was his city. And now he’s abandoning them because poor little spider is threatened by whispers of an up-and-coming bounty on his head. Peter felt shame rise up like bile in the back of his throat, threatening to make him sick but not quite getting to the point of actually puking, because Peter has faced worse than that. He faced humiliation, direct death threats, even near-death experiences as Spider-Man. And now, just a whiff of danger and he goes running.

But on the second day, bleeding into the third, he found himself thinking. Why shouldn’t he be able to preserve himself? He’s a hero, sure, but he’s not getting paid for it. The Avengers never treated him as a hero that can actually save the city, more like an amateur, a wannabe that’s just too young and is always doomed to get in everyone’s way. The Bugle gives Spider-Man a bad reputation, and most of New York’s citizens who have not yet been in a situation Spider-Man had handled up close actually believe the bullshit that rag of a newspaper sells. No matter what way, in general, New York does not want, nor need, Spider-Man. Peter snorted at the thought of S.H.I.E.L.D. actually paying Wade to protect him, because he wasn’t an ally of S.H.I.E.L.D., nor does he think that the covert organization that was the backbone for the Avengers would want him of all supers safe.

Thoughts of S.H.I.E.L.D. made thoughts of Wade weasel into his mind. Come to think of it, Wade had been out of it for the last few days. He had been stumbling about the room, out of sorts, and he had even snapped at Peter that one time at breakfast even though he only said a ‘good morning’. Of course, Wade had apologized profusely after that, but Peter knew better and hid all the guns Wade had easy access to. There was no point in having a repeat of Wade bleeding, dead, on the couch with a shattered skull. Just the thought of it made a shiver run down Peter’s back.

“Earth to cute ass over here,” a voice said, and Peter looked up from his biology textbook to see Wade in his suit. He had on the trench coat again, but now he had a backpack and a duffel slung casually over his shoulders.

“What?”

“I need to leave. Mission.”

Peter’s gut clenched uncomfortably. _Mission. Which means killing. Killing a target. Like Spider-Man._

He shook his head. He can’t get distracted. “When will you be back?”

“Couple of days. Worst case scenario is a week.” He ruffled Peter’s hair, and he just scowled because his glasses are knocked off the perfect place on the bridge of his nose. “See you til then. I’ll give you a surprise.”

“Wait.” Peter didn’t know what he was thinking, but it surely wasn’t to grab Wade’s wrist to stop him from leaving. The mercenary halted, however, obedient, expectant. He grimaced. “Who are you going to kill?”

“No killing.” Wade shook his head. “If you can believe it… Nah, I’m working on recon.”

“On who?”

“Spider-Man.”

All common sense flew off to la la land when Peter next opened his mouth. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Please… don’t.” He couldn’t look him in the eye, even if it was through the familiar red-and-black mask. It just hurt so much knowing that Wade just took the money from S.H.I.E.L.D. and is still on recon for Spider-Man. At this point, Peter would not just have to hang up the mask and suit forever, but he’d never be able to tell Wade who he is. Which made his chest constrict to ungodly levels of pain, which he cannot understand. Why does he care if Wade knows or not? When he looked up at the mercenary again, the question dissolved. “Don’t kill him.”

“You heard…?”

He must’ve looked pretty damn scared because Wade snorted out a small laugh that tried to be cocky but failed, miserably. He patted Peter’s shoulder, trying to be reassuring. “I won’t.”

Peter looked up, a surge of hope flaring in his chest. “Then why…?”

“He’s been missing for three days. I’m getting worried.”

Something other than hope rears its head inside Peter. He suddenly found his mouth dry. “Worried…?”

“I-I mean of course I will be, he’s my pal after all.” Wade looked away, a habit of his when he’s caught in a lie. Peter’s caught him on it everytime he asked who ate his cookie for the day, and he’d know when Wade was lying about the pettiest of things. Does that mean Spider-Man isn’t his pal after all? Does he think his bond with Spider-Man is petty? Wait, what bond is he even thinking about? “I can’t just let him go off like that.”

“Right… right, yeah.” He cleared his throat and let go of him. “You know where I’ll be.”

Wade winced. “Peter, it’s not like that –“

Wait, what? “What’s not like what?” he pressed, thoroughly confused now.

“I’m – I don’t like Spidey – “

At this, Peter laughed. It wasn’t his normal laugh, nor was it the passing-off-as-awkward laugh. It was the empty one, nearly derisive, sarcastic. He balled his hands into fists to ground himself, to remind him that starting to confess that Peter and Spider-Man were one and the same was a reckless thing to do, and that it would make him end up lying dead on the floor with a bullet between his eyes. “Why would you tell me this? It’s not like we’re dating or anything. Honestly, like… me and you? Together?” He snorted, trying to cover up a trail he should never have left in the first place. “ _Really?”_

It wasn’t his Spider-sense, it was his gut telling him that something was wrong, it was what he said, and now it resulted to the room temperature seeming to drop almost 15 degrees.

“…Right. I’m off then.” And with that, Wade was out the door.

Peter stared after him for a good five minutes, before he lashed out and threw his library books out the room. He flung a string of web and slammed the door to the bedroom shut, then took off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.

This was going to be a long vacation.

* * *

 

He left a note on the dinner table in case Wade went home. It read:

“ _Wade,_

_I went to my Aunt May, staying for a bit. Be back by Monday night after exams. – P.P.”_

It wasn’t that he was actually imposing, he reminded himself on the way home, the houses blending in to faded versions of the ones brightly-painted walls when he was a kid. Aunt May had been badgering him for weeks to come and visit after seemingly figuring out that he had moved. When asked how, Aunt May vaguely mentioned about a surprise visit that had cost a man and a woman some alone time, as though that news wouldn’t make Peter retch that a couple was doing the nasty on the couch he usually bled on after Spidey work (Peter decided they didn’t need to know that, and comfortably kept his mouth shut).

It wasn’t like Peter was shutting her off, oh no – he missed her, of course, and once he was knocking on the door of their old home he was already giddy, feeling like he was at least ten years younger. Sure, back then he’d go home with Harry in his more expensive clothes and a pair of sunglasses that made Peter want to hide his banged-up pair, but Harry always loved the Parker’s place, or so he said. To his credit, Peter noticed that Harry acted more his age when he was under their roof than out of it, which was, unfortunately, more often. He felt a little sad and wistful knowing they can’t go back to the way they were once. Peter had seen him in his ugliest form, as the Green Goblin, and even though Harry had been miraculously free from any Goblin duty and has seemingly forgotten those choice months (how, no one exactly knows why), there was one thing Peter can’t ever forget whenever he saw Harry’s face. And that was Gwen, and how she looked like when she fell, when she hit the ground, closed her eyes, and never woke up. It sounded foolish to him to keep the wound open, he knew, but it served him as fuel to save everyone as best as he could. This would sacrifice Peter and Harry’s friendship, however, and although the Osborn heir felt the growing gap between them and respectfully left Peter alone, he hoped Harry understood, or at least misunderstood, why. Like professionalism. They can’t be seen being buddies, the boss and the underling.

“Get inside already!” Aunt May’s voice jarred him from his thoughts, and a force around his midriff knocked the breath out of his lungs. Even old, Aunt May was still in great condition, which was why she took it upon herself to work shifts as a nurse sometimes to help with Peter’s college fees. He protested against it as long as he could, but when he saw Aunt May actually enjoying herself taking care of people other than him even when she got back home exhausted, he dropped the arguments altogether and let her be.

“Hey, Aunt May,” he said, and hugged back. He got a whiff of something before he felt himself perk up excitedly. “Is that…?”

“Apple pie?” she filled in, laughing and swatting Peter’s back. “Come inside, and I’ll put it out and give you a slice. You must be tired.”

“Thanks, Aunt May, you’re the best.” And she was. That opinion had only changed when it became fact. He went up the stairs to put his travel bag on the bed in his old bedroom. Even though he was travelling light, it still felt a bit heavy when he dropped it on the bed, or maybe that was just him. Here he was familiar with things, and there was someone he can completely be with. Hiding Spider-Man from Aunt May had been second nature to him, so he didn’t find it hard.

 He looked around in his old bedroom, converted into a guest bedroom that was still technically Peter’s since he was the only one who often came and slept in the house. The bed was still where he usually slept, albeit the change in sheets from blue to a simple white. His walls looked painfully bare to him since he was fond of putting up numerous posters of bands and scientists. The shelves looked neat and tidy, and Peter felt an itch to stuff it full with heavy tomes that weren’t exactly as big as the shelf had space for. He knows Aunt May couldn’t really bear any semblance that Peter had lived there when he left (a thing that had eaten at his conscience ever since he stepped foot into his own apartment) but he was glad to be back, and he was pretty sure Aunt May was, too.

Dinner was filled with excited chatter, mostly on Aunt May’s part, and awkward one-liners from Peter. Of course, he wasn’t really keen on telling her that he had moved in with someone, or that he was still technically single (wait… ‘ _technically’_? Of course he was single!), but it became easier when the conversation jumped to OsCorp, and work with the Bugle, and Jameson leaving.

“How are you holding up at OsCorp?” she asked, finishing a slice of apple pie.

“I’m doing fine, Aunt May, really,” he replied, trying hard not to gobble down his own share. Damn, it was too delicious to eat sparingly by the forkful. “Harry’s doing okay, too. I mean, I don’t talk to him, of course, he’s always busy at work and I’m just an intern, but he looks fine. He’s living it up to be an Osborn.”

“That poor boy hated the whole family business. He didn’t want anything to do with it, you know that.” She sighed and grimaced.

He laughed quietly. “Yeah, well… a lot has changed since then.”

Silence hung over the table, but Peter barely felt it – he had grown used to the social awkwardness with Wade over the last few days – until Aunt May cleared her throat. “Have you visited Gwen lately?”

Hearing her name felt like a pang of ice stabbing his heart, but he suppressed the urge to wince. “Gwen?”

“Peter!”

“I-I didn’t forget her, of course,” he made up for the mistake even though he really didn’t commit anything. “I just…”

“Today’s the fifth year since then.”

Five years.

Peter didn’t even know how he survived for so long without her. He was certain that, were she still alive, he’d have probably asked her to marry him sometime soon, or right after she graduated from Oxford. He had dreams of it, too – swinging to the graduation ceremony in full Peter Parker costume, whisking Gwen away right after she got her award for _summa cum laude_ in whatever she took , and probably changing into civilian clothes and taking Gwen to the London Eye, and proposing to her at the very peak. He knew she’d say yes. He knew, and he knew how she’d say it, how her eyes would light up, how her hands would fly to her mouth to keep it shut. In one single moment, that illusion would be gone, and all he could see was Gwen’s broken body in that godforsaken clock tower, his web uselessly hanging on to her.

He quietly excused himself from the table, saying something about going to the cemetery and buying a rose. He knew the effort was half-assed, and that the rose wouldn’t even be as good as the ones that came in fresh in the morning, but he promised to himself (and, mentally, to Gwen) that he’ll go first thing the next day and buy her the reddest bouquet of roses in the store as compensation. He tied a thin, white ribbon – somehow he just pictured Gwen in the dress she had been wearing when she was finally laid down to rest – and slowly walked the remaining blocks to the cemetery.

To some people, five years would be enough to at least stop the waterworks from flowing when he finally trudged up and faced the all-too-familiar headstones bearing her name and her date of expiry. But out of everything that happened to him (and that was saying something, being Spider-Man and all), she was the best damn thing he had encountered. He just wished that she could’ve stayed a little bit longer, and that her absence wasn’t as permanent as it was now for many more years to come.

“Hey, Gwen,” he started, sniffling. He didn’t even know what to say. It was tradition now that he talked to her headstone. Too many days has he spent in the exact same spot in whatever weather, just staring at her name engraved in the stone, until he decided that if he stayed silent a moment longer, he’d go crazy. So he started talking. But right now, all coherent words flew out the window in his brain, and all he was left with was a big fat load of _nothing._ “Uhm… I’m sorry I nearly forgot. I didn’t mean to, I promise… It’s just…”

The words died in his mouth, and he looked up at the twinkling stars. It reminded him of her eyes. He remembered it doing funny things to his heart and his breathing whenever her face would scrunch up in happiness, and her smile would be all that he could see. Now, it was just a memory, and it was a fond one. But the effects of the memory weren’t as strong as before. He found it nostalgic. He missed her, but he didn’t feel as though he can’t live without her anymore. He just couldn’t live the _same_ anymore. It was different.

There was the sound of a twig snapping, and Peter nearly snapped his neck when he turned to see who it was. All of his senses were on high alert and, before he knew it, he was crouching down and pulling the hood of his jacket on his head. If ever he needed to make quick use of his webs, he’d have to hide his identity still. He hoped the darkness would help him tonight.

What nearly makes him double over in surprise was the one voice he didn’t expect to be hearing tonight, nor anytime soon. When the person called out a tentative “Hello?”, all thoughts of Gwen and Aunt May flew out the proverbial window as his windpipe constricted and his chest tightened, making it harder to breathe. He could only choke out one word in his surprise, because that was the only thing that was running around in his probably shell-shocked brain.

“Harry?”


	10. Visits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has never had anything under the category 'too good to be true' come into his life and actually stay for long. The night proves just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm sorry for not updating last month! Stress, anxiety, and uni got the best of me! 
> 
> But now, I can safely say that my GPA is great, I'm in the Dean's List again, and I have four months of summer ahead!
> 
> Which means, more fanfics! Yay!

* * *

Peter had to be hallucinating. He _had_ to be. Because there was no way in _hell_ that his childhood best friend who had his secretary Felicia hovering by his shoulder round the clock, whose net worth is in the millions, was now walking around in the public cemetery, in the dark, with no bodyguards whatsoever.

 He was dressed plainly, as well, compared to what he got used to seeing him in at all the videos being aired around OsCorp every morning about the different projects and updates of the company. Harry was wearing a long black coat that reached his knees, and a suit and tie beneath. Peter noted that he was breathing a bit raggedly than normal. Did he run away from a party or something?

After a few seconds, the blonde smiled. It wasn’t the feral grin he was expecting, like when he saw Harry all juiced up with the spider venom as the Green Goblin. It wasn’t the usual polite smile for the cameras, either – it was like that first smile Peter ever got from him after splashing mud on his sunnies. A genuine Harry smile, not the cold Osborn one. “Still maintaining the unibrow, Parker?”

With that, it seemed like all the sparks of tension and discomfort melted away. Peter laughed nervously under his breath and stepped forward, making sure he hid his webslingers with the sleeves of his jacket. “I’m glad you noticed. Impeccable dress style, I must say, Mr. Osborn.”

“Please, it’s all Felicia,” Harry waved the compliment off with a flick of his hand. “She pretties me up for the press.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Well, it’s one less thing to do. Now all I have to do is sit still.”

Peter couldn’t help but full-on laugh at that one, then ran to hug the ever-living shit out of Harry because _fuck yes,_ it’s childhood-friend Harry and not boss-at-work Mr. Osborn, not even batshit-crazy Green Goblin. It’s not even  He felt slim arms wrap around him and give him the old-fashioned pat on the back he got used to when hugging him. Tradition states that after the pat, Peter should mess Harry’s hair up like a duck’s tail, and he does it without further ado.

“Peter.” Harry was smiling widely now, eyes wide and looking him up and down as though taking a first good look in a long time. “So glad to meet you after all these years. How has it been?”

He paused for a bit before guardedly looking away. “Oh, you know. Fine.”

“’Fine’?” He could hear Harry huff out in annoyance. “Is that how you describe yourself to your best friend after dropping off the face of the earth for five years?”

“I didn’t disappear,” he defended, crossing his arms. “I… I needed time to think.”

“Think? Of what?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his annoyance in check. Was he really going to play innocent in Gwen’s death? No matter what happened, no matter what state of mind he was in, he was the one who threw Gwen off the top of that clock tower. Even if he wasn’t in the right state of mind, it was still understandable that Peter was more than a little wary and uncomfortable talking about it with him. Harry Osborn wasn’t thick and he could read the situation unconsciously, so this was a new trait of his.

Peter filed it in his mind under ‘rude’.

He looked back at Gwen’s headstone, then shook his head. “Not here.”

Harry didn’t look convinced and peered over his shoulder to look at what he was looking at. His expression immediately turned somber. “Oh. Is it today?”

Without a word, Peter bobbed his head once. He pushed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and shuffled his feet, awkward. Harry was the first one to make a move, and it was toward Gwen. He touched the stone for a moment, then knelt and left something, before going back to Peter. Once he squinted, he could see it was a white rose.

“I know how hard it must have been,” Harry mumbled, folding up the collar of his coat so he more looked like a vicar. “Gwen was so bright and innocent, and all that, gone because of some asshole running a red light.”

Peter felt cold suddenly seep into every nerve cell of his being. He stared at Harry as though he had lost his mind. A clear ‘What? Did I say something wrong?’ expression was painted across Harry’s face.

“What do you mean, ‘because of some asshole running a red light’?”

* * *

 

Peter had to be stone-faced all the way to the café he had agreed to go with Harry to, to listen to him explain. To his credit, Harry seemed to read the situation (as always) and, sensing that Peter was just looking for one window of opportunity to land a punch square on his jaw, steered clear of him and walked three paces ahead of him, silent. Peter was grateful for that, but it did nothing to soothe the angry monster raring up inside of him because Harry had the audacity to sugarcoat Gwen’s death as a hit-and-run.

The café they finally entered in was small and private, like a little cove in the streets. Orange lights hung everywhere and the seats were comfy and bouncy. Harry picked it so that not a lot of commotion would happen once he’s sighted. Peter sat down with his arms crossed as the blonde sidled up to the counter and ordered coffee for them both.

“Explain,” Peter demanded even before Harry could sit down. The other person only frowned and gave him the cup of coffee.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re angry,” he said, holding up his hands when Peter visibly winced. “But after her accident, I kind of had my own accident. They say I nearly OD’ed on the drugs I took to cure the Osborn curse and hit my head, that’s why I had big lapses in my memory. The doctors, they filled me in with the accidents, or anything else important I might have forgotten. To prevent controversy I went into this rehab center called Ravencroft. It’s OsCorp’s, and I got a nice room there to get the drugs out of my system. I didn’t feel anything, I didn’t get any cravings, but I did get… visions.

“I got visions of… of Spiderman, and something… horrible.” He visibly shivered. Peter didn’t know whether to buy it or not, so he kept listening. “And I kept hearing voices. I mean, Dr. Hamilton – that’s my shrink at Ravencroft – he told me these were common signs at rehab.”

Harry stopped to drink his coffee. Peter could see his hands were shaking, and the guy looked pale. He wondered what it was like, having after-effects of the Green Goblin haunt him even while awake. Which reminded him… “So you’re cured?” he asked, shocked.

Harry put down his cup, smiling weakly. “Yeah, I am,” he said, relief making his voice less wobbly. “The great Osborn curse, cured from the bloodline. Frankly, I couldn’t believe it either. Dad was… He was fighting it for a long time, with the best machinery (well, second to Stark’s) the world could give, and he didn’t make it alive to see it regress. It was just suddenly gone in me. I don’t know how or why, and neither do the doctors at Ravencroft. They keep checking in on me at work, like I’m in remission or something. I’m just glad it’s gone.”

For a moment, Peter forgot to breathe. Harry, with memory lapses on what happened, including his dual identity and the Goblin fiasco. Harry, cured of the disease. Harry, lying low and playing puppet for the press while leading a world-renowned company under 30. Harry Osborn, being a normal human, having human problems, without any conscious association whatsoever with the world of supers. Peter at once felt happiness bloom in his chest, but there was always the side of jealousy he has learned to expect every time he takes a moment to revel in humanity’s normalcy – the one thing he had to shun to be one of New York’s protectors. He finally cracked a small smile, and, voice weak, said, “That’s great, Harry.”

Three words, and Harry slumped in his chair, letting out one of the biggest, most authentic sighs of relief Peter had to have come across in his life. “So you’re not mad at me anymore?”

In all honesty, Peter couldn’t bring himself to hate him. The guy made mistakes, sure. _And,_ he thought, _Gwen wouldn’t want me to distance myself, even if it’s because of her death._ He took a deep breath and shook his head, smiling at Harry reassuringly. “No.”

* * *

 

The catching-up with Harry had taken nearly four hours. The barista who was working the graveyard shift gave them the stink-eye and a slew of verbal onslaughts followed them out the door after Harry answered her complaining about closing hours with five hundred dollars to literally ‘buy them some time’. Peter had stitches after they ran up the park laughing and wheezing. He wouldn’t be surprised if some stray dog started to chase them around for disturbing the peace of New York at night.

Harry had bid farewell but not without a promise to seeing him again and a private number to call him ‘just like old times’. Peter had a spring in his step while walking all the way home. The past had come back to him, and it seemed that everything had settled to near perfection during the time Peter had shoved matters to the back of his mind.

 To be fair, he had suspicions on the whole thing, since he was only puny Parker, with no lasting luck in his genetics. He had the strong urge to keep himself from celebrating and merely wait for the other shoe to drop. But he just _couldn’t._ Out of everything that has happened in his life – his parents, Uncle Ben, the Green Goblin, Gwen – shouldn’t he be at least given some window of calm and peace? Heck, after all he’s done for the city, one evening of normalcy wouldn’t harm anybody. Right?

Thoughts of justification still go through his head, even when he stumbled into the house with the lights still on in the kitchen and far too much noise for only one person in the house. He stopped in his tracks when he heard someone who was definitely not Aunt May laughing in the kitchen.

“Peter, is that you? Come into the kitchen, you have a guest!” Aunt May called out, and the laughter abruptly stopped. Peter put his internal panicking in check and crossed the living room to the kitchen.

Never in the months he has been living with Wade has the thought of him sitting down on their dinner table eating a plate of empanadas. He knew it was Wade even when he still had his back to him – the hunched over frame was all too familiar, as was the red and black hoodie and cargo pants he was wearing.

Aunt May was rambling off on how unexpected Wade’s visit was. Peter, admittedly, tuned her out the moment Wade turned around. He wasn’t looking at him, deeming the tiled floor a whole lot more interesting than Peter. He noticed the fresh cuts on his face. A soft, impersonal “hey” was the only thing he said, still not looking him in the eye as he did. Peter winced, hating the cold monosyllabic word.

Guilt. That was definitely guilt tugging at his heartstrings right about then. Peter was willing to bet one of his webslingers that this awkward, cold Wade was because of what he said before he left. Peter’s self-hatred got renewed just thinking back to that incident.

 _Well,_ he thought, _there goes the other shoe._


	11. Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter acknowledges his feelings for Wade. No, he's pretty sure it's not infatuation nor love yet, but he knew it was something entirely off the plane of 'friendship' and platonic companionship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter rambles a lot in his mind, Wade treads lightly around Peter, and Aunt May is a sweet dear who knows how to read the signs.
> 
> x~x~x~x
> 
> sorry if this chapter is a bit boring up until the last part! I wanted to explore Peter in-depth with his relationship with Wade. At least the guy knows he kinda sorta likes the merc going after him :'))

He didn’t know what was worse – the fact that Wade was doing his damnedest to not look at him, or that he had agreed to Aunt May’s offer for him to spend the weekend with them.

Not that Peter was going to be a downright rude host to shoo Wade out of the house at an ungodly hour. Nor was he going to go against Aunt May’s judgment (“Poor Mr. Winston would be lonely in your shared apartment since you’ll stay the weekend here”). However, he knew that Aunt May felt the tension between them. It was palpable in the air the moment they had seen each other. He just didn’t know whether Aunt May dismissed it as an issue they needed to sort out themselves, or as a reason to hurl them both in a controlled environment.

Peter had the nagging suspicion it was the latter. What with Aunt May practically demanding (in a sickly sweet voice, of course, the one that made children want to sit down beside a fireplace for storytime) the man to stay with them, even though it was common knowledge to her and Peter that the only room where Wade could sleep was in Peter’s old room, which Peter was occupying that night. The bed was big enough for two people; a bit of a tight squeeze, but the situation they were in made it almost impossible for him to think that they'd agree to it.

He didn’t want to be the one to break the news of the sleeping arrangements to Wade, still unsure on how to approach the guy after their outburst some days ago. And so, to show Aunt May that everything was normal between them and there were no qualms with Wade staying whatsoever (it proved ineffective, in the end), he had volunteered to wash the dishes, tuning out Wade’s “let me do it” by turning his back against him. Perhaps he was doing more damage to the mangled bridge of a friendship (‘ _friendship’_ ) they had, but he wasn’t in the mood tonight. Aunt May steered Wade to the living room, and the giant of a man just ducked his head and dragged his heavy bags across the carpeted floor.

By the time he had loaded everything into the drier, there was an indignant yelp from Wade. Aunt May must’ve told him already.

As if on cue, he went out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel, while Wade sputtered, “That would be invading his privacy, I wouldn’t want that. Please, let me sleep on the couch, it’s already very comfy –“

“Nonsense,” Aunt May interrupted. “That’s not the proper way to treat a guest.”

“I could sleep on the couch, if the guest isn’t comfortable with me,” Peter offered absently, speaking more to Aunt May. But it was Wade who answered.

“Petey, you know I don’t mean that,” he said, a gentle plea in his rough voice.

Peter vehemently ignored him. Whatever it was between them, they had to resolve it on their own. They didn’t need Aunt May to play counsellor.

A few beats passed and he remembered he didn’t answer, and they were both expecting him to. He conceded, with getting Wade’s bags and dragging them up the stairs, to his old bedroom. Wade called out to him and followed him up, trying to reason with him.

“Peter, damn it, listen to me,” Wade demanded, but he wasn’t doing anything. Not yet. Not until they’re in the clear. He could apologize to Aunt May for the night’s rudeness in the morning. _Make her banana pancakes._ He thought, as he opened the bedroom door, too engrossed in his musings to bother turning the light on. _Yes, that would work—_

A pair of heavy hands pushed him against the wall, rattling him from his train of thought and into the ‘ _what the fuck happened and why didn’t my Spider Sense didn’t see that coming’_ trail _._ He looked up at Wade, scarred face mostly hidden in the shadows that his hood gave, and snarled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

And as if he wasn’t mindfucked already, Wade had the actual balls to _smile,_ and not in a feral, predatory way, but in the reminiscing way. “Hey Pete.”

“Get off!”

“You’re finally talking to me.”

“Wade, for fuck’s sake, I’m going to kick you in the balls—“

“Will you?”

That made him shut up, and Wade leaned in close, much too close. His face was just inches from his, hot breath that smelled of Mexican food tickling his neck. Peter heard him inhale deeply, then hummed, seemingly satisfied.

“Did you just smell me?” he finally asked, eyes blown wide.

“Watching _Hannibal_ lately?” The other laughed, but didn't wait for an answer before asking another question. “Yeah, so?”

Peter squirmed, and Wade finally had the bright idea to loosen his grip. Just a little. But it was a window Peter didn’t take for granted. With a little extra push from his superstrength he shoved him off, stalking to his bed to sit there, fuming.

“I cannot _believe_ you would do that.”

“I missed you too.”

Peter hated the way Wade could make him feel tongue-tied in the simplest of words. He cursed himself when he felt the heat rise in his cheeks, but thanked the gods he could list off the top of his head it was dark. “Did you.”

A look of confusion, mixed with a hint of pain, seemed to fill Wade’s body language. “What do you mean? Of course I did.”

“How did the tracking go?” he all but spat, hating the fact that he was inches from the man who would cash in his body for a truckload of chimichangas.

To his credit, the mercenary didn’t know what to feel about all that venom in his activity for the past few days. He sat down on Peter’s old computer chair, where the natural light from the city streamed in from the window, illuminating his scarred features, seemingly grimacing thoughtfully. But he answered anyway, the touch of disappointment evident. “Bupkis.”

Peter nearly sang. Instead, he snorted through his nose, and stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He could feel Wade eager to break the tension between them. Admittedly, Peter ached when the tentativeness crept into the other’s voice, something he hadn’t thought was possible. “Can I join?”

It was a truce offer; if he answered positively, everything would go back to normal between Wade and Peter. If not, he didn’t know what Wade would do. Hell, knowing he was a mercenary, he wouldn’t know what to even expect from him. He had also acknowledged that it was primarily his fault for the whole misunderstanding, and Wade was the one who was mature enough to actually try to amend things even when he was the victim. That made his stomach coil in guilt. He needed to amend things. Or at least, start to.

“No, you can’t,” Peter said, deftly turning his head from him. But when he was at the door, he added, “But we can talk afterwards.” He left the room without expecting an answer.

The lukewarm water hit his skin, and Peter closed his eyes, trying to soak in whatever weird mix of freshness and warmth the water had to offer. He knew he was biding his time, standing still in the shower, just letting the droplets fall from his hair down his body. He inspected himself, already seeing the bruises that he had acquired from one of his last fights starting to finally heal, the dark purplish tint turning into an almost sickly yellow. Even the cuts he had sustained from minor mishaps and bad falls had almost healed, leaving only behind itchy skin. He still stood on the same ground with him laying off the Spider-Man business for a while. It was simply too dangerous.

 _And too heartbreaking,_ a nagging voice in his head echoed. He nearly slapped his ears, wide-eyed. That had certainly _not_ been his opinion of it.

But even as he said that, imagined staring down the barrel of a gun, or feeling one of his katanas slice into him, knowing that he was the perpetrator, that he’d die by his hands… it all seemed so saddening.

 _Wade._ He neither knew where nor how to begin to describe his feelings for the man. Although he didn’t seem to be inherently hostile to him, no, not really. And he was pretty sure that his feelings were strictly friendly.

…Wasn’t it?

Suddenly the image of them cuddling on the couch with dried blood between them weaselled into his thoughts. He still didn’t know whether Wade really had kissed the top of his head, or some hallucination in his half-conscious state. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, making colors explode beneath his eyelids.

Say that it was true… that he had kissed the top of his head. What then? He felt his chest pool with warmth, and he yelped, stopping his imagination altogether. He turned the shower off and leaned against the wall, no doubt a blush settling on his cheeks.

Perhaps he had a _little, teensy-weensy, ‘n multiplied to 10 -4‘ _crush on the man. Which would explain how sad he was to know that Wade didn’t feel the same way. Even if he did, that’d probably change when he finds out Peter Parker and Spider-Man were one and the same. Correction: _if_ he finds out.

Peter was set on not telling Wade his identity. Perhaps when the search has gone cold, or the offer was null and void since Spider-Man had gone AWOL. Yes, that’s probably for the best.

He stepped out of the shower, dried his hair, and put on sweats and a t-shirt. Took his time with brushing, flossing, making silly faces in front of the mirror. Biding his time until he needed to talk to Wade. When Aunt May finally told him through the door to go to sleep, he relented, but kissed her cheek on his way upstairs.

He found Wade setting up his own sleeping bag on the floor right next to Peter’s bed. He had changed into boxers (which, curiously enough, had some kind of pattern Peter had trouble seeing in the dark) and a fitting black shirt that made Peter want to bolt. Wade looked up at him and had smiled so shyly, he didn’t have the heart to keep pushing him away. Not for the rest of the night, anyway.

“Don’t be stupid, you can sleep on the bed,” he said, going for nonchalant, pointedly not looking at him.

It seemed to shake him though. “No, that’s alright, I mean, I’ve slept on harder places. Honestly, a floor is heaven.”

“You’d pick a floor to a bed with me?” he mumbled, feigning hurt.

Wade immediately amended. “You’re inviting me to sleep with you?”

“ _Only sleeping.”_

“Deal! Haha, yes!”

“Then get your ass here. No touching anywhere.”

“That’s ruining the purpose of sharing a bed, you know.”

“Backing out?”

Wade shook his head fervently and slid beside Peter on the bed. He lied down on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Deftly he wondered where to start. He could feel Wade’s body, tense and stiff. He sighed and asked the first thing on his mind. “Where were you?”

It took Wade a few moments before he answered. “All over the place. I had asked a lot of people, lots of old friends of his in prison, you know. To help me find his Spideycave, but I got nothing.”

“Are you really going to kill him?”

“Christ, Peter, I already said no.” He smiled and poked his cheek. “Why’d you get your panties in a twist about him, anyway? Unless you like him?”

He laughed. “No, I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

“Then who do you like?”

It was an innocent enough question, but it held the fragility of someone secretly hoping for a specific answer. Peter just turned his back to him, curling up in a ball. He changed the topic.

“Wade?”

“Yes, Peteypie?”

“I forgive you.”  _And I'm sorry,_ he wanted to add, but his tongue couldn't bring the words out.

“I actually don’t know what I did, but thanks for that.” And he could feel it, the gratitude in his voice. “So we’re okay then?”

“Yeah.” He smiled to himself. “We’re okay. Good night, Wade. Remember, no touching.”

“I promise.” He laughed, and there was some shifting on his part, possibly to get more comfortable on the bed. Peter had already fallen asleep when he finally said, “Good night.”

* * *

 

When Peter woke the next day, he noticed two things.

One, that he felt a very warm, very solid, very open _something_ and Peter couldn’t help nuzzle against it.

And two, that he had a heavy weight around his waist, and that his legs were tangled with someone else’s.

For the first few minutes, Peter didn’t seem to mind. _Happy,_ even, for the warmth, the comfort, the overwhelming sense of security this warm, solid _something_ has to offer. Nuzzling into the warmth seemed the most natural thing to do, and he did so burying his head on a nook he found most comfortable, inhaling musk that made him hum. He opened one eye, then the second. His eyesight was still blurry, but he gave his eyes a few blinks before everything came to focus.

His mind registered things slowly. The black t-shirt he had been sniffing, the scars on the skin that stretched out. The slow, rhythmic beat that he can feel drumming steadily under his fingertips where they had bunched the black cloth, seemingly afraid to let go. The even breathing pattern that tickled his forehead and hair.

The boxers that the other wore, with an unmistakable pattern of two masked cartoon heads with heart speech bubbles.

“Mornin,’” the warm, solid _something_ drawled and Peter looked up. Wade still had his eyes closed, but judging by the smile on his lips he was acutely aware of what position he had woken up to.

“Good morning,” Peter said, a bit drily. “What happened to no touching?”

“Baby-boy, you were the one who started nuzzling and sniffing around midnight,” he teased, a deep rumble bubbling in his chest as he laughed the morning haze away.

Properly embarrassed, he broke free of the (admittedly comfortable) restraints, much to Wade’s disappointment, if his whine was anything to base his current mood on.

“Is that how you treat your husband back from the war?”

“You’re not my husband, and you haven’t been in a war.”

“I’m hurt! Such cruel things to say to your master!”

“Wade, for Christ’s sake –“

“Want to call me ‘Master’ again?”

“No breakfast for you.”

Wade paused for a bit, then relented. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Pancakes.”

With a simple word, Wade had bound down the stairs, no doubt calling dibs on the ingredients onhand. Peter smiled to himself as he followed him, sitting down on the kitchen counter to watch Wade enthusiastically make his signature breakfast meal. It felt so normal, and the domestic warmth he felt with Wade, even after what happened, was settling in his chest and stomach without much alarm.

“Baby-boy?”

He shook his head and looked up at Wade’s concerned face. “Sorry, I spaced out.”

“I was asking you what your Aunt May likes better – chocolate syrup, strawberry, or maple. I personally recommend maple, of course, but I want to make your Aunt happy as thanks for letting me stay.”

Peter had to smile at that. Wade didn’t have a very long list of people he tried to impress, much less the people he felt indebted to. For Aunt May to be in both lists after only a short time with the man was a great feat. “Maple.”

“Excellent choice, Mr. Parker,” he replied in a fake British accent, and after a few moments he nearly empties the bottle of maple syrup onto three plates holding up tall stacks of pancakes.

Wade was in the motion of taking one helluva tall forkful from his own stack when his phone began to ring. Peter pursed his lips as the man patted his ass, sure that the gadget was in the only pocket. “Sorry, babe, gotta take this,” he said in passing, going to the living room for privacy.

“Not your babe!” Peter called after him, smiling to himself. He didn’t notice Wade going still when he finally answered the phone. He did, however, hear the first string of words that came out of his mouth.

“Coulson, you’ve got ten seconds to call your men off the Parker house, or, so help me, our contract is void.”

  


	12. Subtlety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson picks up on something between Wade and Peter, but particularly with Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this being overdue, guys! I had major writer's block and only got about halfway into this chapter at the start of the month ;A;
> 
> I know it's bad even with the cliffhanger. Okay, especially with the cliffhanger.
> 
> But I made up for it! Here you go! //Please don't kill me.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! I love every one of them, and I wish I could hug you all!

* * *

Peter’s mouth went dry.

 _Coulson._ Agents surrounding their house. _S.H.I.E.L.D._ agents surrounding their house. He didn’t know what _for,_ per se, but he doesn’t want to know. Not now, not with Wade here. If S.H.I.E.L.D. had somehow gotten hold of his identity (though from what, Peter couldn’t pinpoint; he had been quite certain he wasn’t leaving any traces as Peter Parker in his Spider-Man suit as much as possible), he didn’t need them to expose his alter-ego to Wade, of all people, right after they made up, right after things had started to become normal again.

“I’m not kidding, Coulson,” Wade growled into the phone. Peter could see him, body tense in the middle of the living room. After a minute he started pacing, his free hand curling and uncurling into a fist. “No. I’m not… There is _nothing_ in that contract about—“

“Wade?” Peter’s voice instantly made him stop, and Wade turned, not quite covering his phone. His face fell from being angry to being worried. Perhaps Peter looked pale and faint; he certainly felt so. “Wade, w-what’s going on?”

Wade tried to push him back into the kitchen. “Petey, please, let me –“

“Why’re you talking to Coulson about the contract?” He demanded, clawing at his arm. “Wade, what are you trying to –“

“This is a big misunderstanding, Peter, please –“

“Wade – “

“Step away from the boy.” Peter felt Coulson’s cool, crisp voice even through Wade’s cellphone. “Step. Away.”

Wade looked out the window and snarled, but put one arm up. The other still held his cellphone to his ear. “Call off your sniper, Coulson. I swear to God...”

 _Sniper?_ Peter’s knees felt weak, and he grasped at the wall to try and right himself. This wasn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol; at least, not what he had found out after looking for a pattern. Spider-Man had been asked to join, but Peter had declined when the agreement included the surrender the identity of whosoever was behind the mask. Peter couldn’t live with that, no matter how tempting it was to accept. There weren’t any snipers when an agent contacted him, Spidey-sense guaranteed.

Had S.H.I.E.L.D. gotten hold of his personal information somehow, had tracked him here to Aunt May’s house? Did they think Peter was conspiring with Wade? Perhaps they thought Wade had found out as well and was holding him hostage? That last one sounded the most plausible, and he held out his hand.

“ – am not going to beg, Coulson, and I am not going to explain why I’m here until there is no barrel – “

“Wade, give me the phone.”

Wade looked at him, annoyed, before going back to Coulson. Something in Peter’s stomach went funny. He had never been on the receiving end of anything hostile from Wade after their first day living together.

“Wade.”

“Peter, please.”

“Give it.”

The annoyed look hardened into a glare, and Peter thought he might have to use his webs just to get the phone, then knock Wade out hard enough for him to forget the whole incident. Fortunately, he didn’t need to do anything of that sort, because Wade reluctantly gave the phone to him.

Coulson’s irritated, stern voice that Wade had been talking to suddenly turned amiable, placating. “Mr. Parker?”

“What’s this issue with your men surrounding my house?”

“Rest assured, Mr. Parker, we will ensure your family’s safety from Mr. Wilson –“

“My family’s _safety_ from _Wade?”_ He scoffed. “Right now, _your men_ are the only threat here!”

“Mr. Parker, we understand your concern, but Mr. Wilson is dangerous. He – “

“No, I don’t think _you_ understand, Mr. Coulson. _Wade_ is my roommate, and I had agreed to his terms to board with him.” True, he agreed due to subtle threat, but he agreed nonetheless. Plus, he had been enjoying his company. Their arrangement wasn’t normal to others, but it worked for them. Peter wasn’t going to lie about that. “And I know about his day job – or night job, if you will – and he never once threatened me nor my family.”

There was a pause, then he could hear Coulson’s voice, faraway and muffled, as though he was talking to someone else with his hand covering the mouthpiece. Peter saw Wade visibly relax, but he wasn’t exactly relieved. His shoulders were still tense, and his arms were still beside his body, still, as though he was ready to whip out the guns from the imaginary holsters strapped to his legs, as if it was instinct.

“Sniper’s gone,” Wade announced, voice guarded. “I’ll still watch out for any sudden movements.”

“I’m sorry for the confusion, Mr. Parker,” Coulson said after the pause. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding. May I please extend my deepest apologies to you personally?”

Peter frowned at that, unsure where this was headed. “Uhm… yes?”

“Great. I’m at your door right now.”

The doorbell rang, and Peter didn’t have the time to warn Wade who it was when he answered it. The minute Wade saw Coulson at the door, phone still pressed to his ear, the snarl that came out of his mouth was enough for Peter to know that this was not going to start off well.

* * *

 

Aunt May was nothing but gracious when she discovered an important-looking man that introduced himself as Mr. Phil Coulson sitting on their couch, hands clasped together, face nothing but amiable, but without a cup of coffee at least. She had berated Peter and Wade for not telling her there was a guest and for not entertaining him themselves, then quickly busied herself preparing tea for all of them, leaving Peter sputtering pathetically for an excuse and Wade uncharacteristically silent.

Once Coulson was sipping on tea, she pulled both of them into the kitchen to discuss some matters. Peter was still wary because he noticed Wade itching to leave, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

Aunt May had her hands on her hips. “Why is Mr. Coulson here?”

“That’s my fault, Auntie May, sorry about that,” Wade grumbled, not looking at her at all. He was fixated on the kettle by the stove. “I shouldn’t have gone here.”

“Nonsense, Wade.”

“He followed me here because he thought I was a danger to you and Petey.”

“If you were dangerous, Wade, I’d have known.” She frowned. “You’re a good man.”

Peter saw Wade visibly compose himself to stay calm. He thought it was because Wade never heard the truth enough. Peter took a mental note to keep it up once they were back in the apartment. “Thank you,” the man mumbled, and Aunt May patted his back before going back to entertain their guest with small talk.

Peter followed, leaving Wade in the kitchen. He was determined to set Coulson straight, and even though he was still scared that S.H.I.E.L.D. had suspected him somehow, he wouldn’t let the paranoia show.

“Ah, Mr. Parker,” Coulson greeted, standing up and offering his hand. It felt like a business transaction. Aunt May excused herself to make more tea for Coulson’s staff, who were standing outside on the porch, stock still. Peter shook his extended hand firmly before sat down.

“Please. Peter.”

“Peter.” Coulson took his seat as well, smiling. It felt odd, and uncomfortable, seeing him in his house, making small talk with Aunt May as though it was normal. Peter had to bite back the urge to flee right there and then. He managed to catch the last few words of Coulson’s sentence. “…secret identity?”

It felt like a punch in the gut. “I-I’m sorry, what?”

“How long have you known Wade’s secret identity?” he prompted. He looked stern, but Peter didn’t know why. “Miss May here told me you’ve been living under the same roof for a few weeks now.”

“Oh.” He nodded, trying to hide the fact that he was close, so close to webbing his face and catapulting out of the house. “I opted to go find a cheaper place to stay. I now have a steady source of income but it’s not enough. Uhm… I saw a flyer for a roommate from a Wade Wilson, and when I went there, it was Deadpool.”

“You weren’t threatened?” He raised an eyebrow. “Never threatened to stay? Surely you must’ve been scared. I imagine Deadpool had you at gunpoint.”

 “He didn’t,” Peter insisted. _Half-truth,_ but truth all the same. He was getting better at lying, a skill crucial at these kinds of situation. “I stayed because I didn’t have any other choice. The day was ending, and I didn’t want Aunt May to worry about me. I had work the next day, so I couldn’t have stayed with her for  the night if I wanted to get to work on time.”

“Why not stay at a hotel for the moment?”

“I didn’t have money.”

“Yet you went into a coffee shop just after going out of your building.”

“I – how do you know that?” Peter demanded, face flushed. Coulson held up his hand.

“I apologize if I seem intrusive. When we caught wind that Wade was staying the night at you and Miss May’s place, we had to investigate.”

“That doesn’t answer the question, Agent Coulson,” he hissed. Coulson twitched minutely, fleetingly, and then his face was back to its serene mask.

“It’s classified,” he finally answered. “But if you must know, S.H.I.E.L.D. has eyes and ears all over the place, to pinpoint potential threats within civilians and exterminate them if necessary, before anything happens.”

“So you’re spying on everyone and taking out the factors that you deem unfit for society.”

“You’re oversimplifying it, Mr. Parker.” The tension between them seemed thick enough to physically cut. “We’re simply pulling the weed out from its roots.”

“Before it even grows. How do you know it will grow a weed?” He spat, angry at S.H.I.E.L.D. for compromising _his_ city, and eliminating innocents in the sense of taking out a future threat. It was inhumane. “You’re not making my city safe, Agent Coulson. You’re instigating fear, thus making yourself the apex predator in this concrete jungle.”

A deadly shadow lurking where people think they had privacy, while in broad daylight they pose as protector of all. It came to mind what Deadpool had said once.

“If you think about it, S.H.I.E.L.D. thrives with Hydra,” he had said on the off-hand, waving a half-eaten burrito around as he gesticulated wildly. “And Hydra lives within S.H.I.E.L.D. There’s not really so much as a perfectly clean slate like S.H.I.E.L.D. represents. Maybe except Cap, of course. He’s the _bomb.”_

Peter let that sink into his mind, processing it. Now there was more reason for him not to join S.H.I.E.L.D., nor resurface any time soon. Coulson was saying something, so he turned to focus on what he was saying.

“…can’t help but notice two things,” he was saying. “How you called me Agent Coulson, and how you call it… _your_ city.”

He had slipped. He knew it. Peter acted up in defense. “I-I know from Wade’s stories of S.H.I.E.L.D. how they call you. And it’s my city because I live in it.”

“Wade never calls anyone ‘Agent’.” Coulson leaned in by a fraction, but the movement made him look intimidating. Suddenly, the calm, happy face seemed dangerous, more dangerous than Peter had first expected.

Thankfully, Wade was there to the rescue. He had put on his clothes from the night before, and was carrying his bag from upstairs. He hadn’t even noticed when Wade had gone from kitchen to their bedroom.

“Just let it go already,” he sighed and threw the bag on the space beside Coulson. Peter had to grudgingly applaud the man for not flinching despite the high likelihood that Wade could’ve easily stuffed a landmine or some sort of explosive in that bag and just manhandle it with abandon. The mercenary plopped down heavily beside Peter and offered him an apologetic smile, before turning back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent. “You just want me, right?”

“Wait, what?” Peter sat up in alarm. “For what?”

“For interrogation,” Coulson replied smoothly and stood up. The men outside took it as a signal to enter the house. One of them got Wade’s bag, and another two flanked either side of the man himself. With a heavy sigh, Wade stood up and ruffled Peter’s hair.

“Relax. I’ll be home tonight.” He offered a crooked smile, one Peter didn’t try to mirror. He wasn’t in the mood for smiles. “You just stay with Aunt May. When are you coming back again?”

“Mon—“ Peter started to say, confused, but he caught Wade shaking his head. The slightest of movements, hidden by the hood pulled over his face. He got the message. “I’m thinking by Friday,” he backpedalled, loud enough to make sure Coulson had overheard. “Finals, you know.”

“I get it. Don’t do school and stay in drugs, kid,” he winked.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m not even going to think that you messed it up accidentally.”

Wade laughed, a genuine one, and it made Peter feel giddy. Coulson excused himself to Peter and Aunt May, before leading the trail of suited men, plus one man in a hoodie, into the black cars. Peter had a bad feeling creeping up his stomach, throat, threatening to make him hurl, but he kept it back.

Wade had made him give a false scent to S.H.I.E.L.D. As much as Wade was talkative, he was highly perceptive that they were now in dangerous waters. “Aunt May,” he said finally, after watching Coulson go into a car and Wade and the other man in another. He noticed how the men treated him roughly, and it made him clench his fists. “I’ll be at the library today.”

“Oh, dear,” she mumbled, watching the scene as well. They were quiet until, one by one, the black cars went off. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

He allowed a small smile. “Oh, yeah. I have faith in him.”

Now was the time to look into whatever public record S.H.I.E.L.D. had. If their state of mind would be placated if Spider-Man joined the ranks, and if that meant they’d get off of Wade’s back, he’d gladly take off his mask, with a few tweaked conditions. Still, the air felt heavy with the rush of events. S.H.I.E.L.D. had eyes and ears all over the place. They could get snipers on top of buildings in a heartbeat. They eliminated threats before they bloomed. As a force with an acronym for something that protects, it was more of a driving force than one that endures.

He took a quick shower, got dressed in denim pants and a hoodie, before heading out to seek for answers, away from the library.

\---

Unbeknownst to Peter, Coulson was on the phone. He had called a dozen other numbers, given his same credentials, with the same inflection in the voice that said ‘reward if done, you know what happens if not’. He had given the exact same instructions, and had gotten the exact, same answers and promises.

As the phone rang, he looked down at his tablet. Displayed on it was the curriculum vitae of one Peter Parker. Coulson had called every institution he had ever studied and/or worked in for information, in addition to his little birdies. The boy intrigued him, with the two things that he had let slip. Coulson had noticed the bluff, and took it as a sign. He needed to investigate the boy further. With that closeness with Wilson, he could prove to be a powerful ally to S.H.I.E.L.D. to get the mercenary in check, or a very serious threat.

He hadn’t lied when he told Peter that he pulled the threats in the city out by the roots. But what he didn’t need to know was that these threats had the potential to be something good. Half of them were on Coulson’s little birdies list, their skill set proving useful in the field of data gathering.

Peter was an unknown variable, and Coulson was eager to find about him.

Finally, the caller picked up. There was some shuffling, and grumbling, followed by a gruff “Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr. Jameson,” Coulson greeted smoothly. “Or should I say, afternoon, where you are?”

“What the fuck do you want?” he asked, impatient. Coulson didn’t so much as flinch. His own underlings had a very colourful vocabulary, and in most days he was very enduring. His patience was running thin, but Mr. Jameson didn’t need to know that.

Coulson inhaled and exhaled slowly, calming himself. This will be worth it. He looked down at the letters on his tablet, spelling out, ‘Exclusive photographer of Spider-Man from _The Daily Bugle’_ under the ‘Work Experiences’ heading. This will be a vital source of information.

“My name is Agent Coulson, and I am from S.H.I.E.L.D.” Just as he had said, a thousand times before. “I’m offering a trade for any information you can give on one Peter Parker…”

 


	13. First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which poor Peter is out of it, moreso when Wade starts making his world spin even faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ---
> 
> You'll love-and-hate this one I promise ;u;
> 
> More on hate probably idk :)))

“Harry,” Peter called not so politely, making neither heads nor tails with what little information he got from the net. After using an office computer that wasn’t his at OsCorp in searching for any information he could get on the connection between S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra, he had only gleaned little information on their modern relationships. Most of the information was before Captain America had his deep sleep. Frustrated, he had gone to the CEO’s office, where, predictably, he had found his best friend looking out the window with a glass of scotch in hand.

“I need to ask you something,” Peter said without preamble, not even with a please or a smile to show. Harry looked up at him slowly before showing him a thin smile.

“You’re lucky it’s Sunday, and there aren’t any meetings,” he replied and motioned to the scotch on his table. Peter shook his head no, and the young CEO just sat down, downing the contents of his glass. He took a moment, baring his teeth a bit as the scotch burned down, but then it dulled and Peter knew Harry was feeling a bit buzzed in the least. “So. What can I do you for?”

“Do you have any information on Hydra?”

Harry frowned. It almost looked comical, like when he was six and had soiled his dress shoes when Peter tricked him into escaping through a window in his house only to land on mud. Finally, he said, “The Greek shit?”

“No, no.” Peter wished Harry’s alcoholism had gone along with his Goblin powers and memories, but he figured Harry had to cope with the memory loss somehow. “The one that got inside S.H.I.E.L.D.”

The other’s frown deepened. “I don’t want to discuss that.”

“Why not?”

“Stark,” he said simply, and Peter understood. OsCorp and Stark Industries had been neck and neck for a while now in the long run, with OsCorp leading in the medicinal field while Stark in the more ‘destructive’ path, as Harry would spit sometimes. However, with the overseas partnership of Stark and a Korean company and handling a project that could fasten the rate cells normally grow, OsCorp was threatened to become unseated in its throne since Norman Osborn headed the corporation.

Tony Stark himself had given a snarky “Good luck, kid; if you ever need advice on how to run a business, you know who to call” on air when it was announced Harry was the successor. Peter’s friend didn’t take it lightly, and had overworked himself everyday trying to master the business world in so little time and getting increasingly frustrated.

“Stark is under the Avengers, though,” Peter tried to talk sense into him, but Harry was already half through his umpteenth glass of scotch. “You should really lay down the alcohol, Harry.”

“Avengers are under S.H.I.E.L.D.” Harry spat and glared pointedly at Peter before downing the scotch. He bared his teeth again before relaxing. “Look, what’s gotten into you lately? First thing I know, you’re hung up with Gwen. Second I know, you’ve been rooming with someone. And now you’re so interested in S.H.I.E.L.D.? Now I know you’re keeping secrets from me.”

“I-It’s not like that,” he defended, but Harry looked so depressed, staring into his empty glass. He sighed and went to fill it up once more, but Peter took the bottle from him. “That’s enough.”

“Parker, you never change.” He smiled, all humor gone. “You still fight a losing battle.”

“I’m not the one fighting alcoholism, Harry.”

“Who says I was fighting it?” He spread his arms wide. “Hell, I’m _embracing_ it. What else can I do?”

“You’ve had enough, and that’s that.” He went to the bar and stashed it somewhere he wouldn’t be able to access. He’ll have to tell his assistant, Felicia, where it is, but after Harry had gone sober for the day.

There was a crash, and he turned around to see his best friend with a death grip on the edge of the table, and the remains of an expensive-looking lamp on the floor.

“…It was in the way,” Harry mumbled, defeated. Peter just shook his head and proceeded to urge him back to the car. Thankfully, Harry still had enough sobriety to point him to the parking lot, and to his own car the first time Peter asked. The driver didn’t look surprised when Harry threw a slur of a thanks before collapsing on the back of the car.

“Please get him home safely,” Peter said to the driver, whose mouth twitched at that. Was that a semblance of a smile?

“Of course, Master Parker. I’ve seen Master Osborn go through worse.”

“Just Peter will do,” he said, surprised. Harry always had this habit of making sure everyone called Peter ‘Master Parker’ back when they were kids, to Peter’s dismay. He had to run around the mansion telling everyone to just call him Peter.

The driver only bowed.

“Of course, Peter. Excuse us.”

* * *

 

After making sure the car was out of sight, he discreetly went up to Harry’s office and tried to access his computer…

…which he couldn’t see anywhere.

After fifteen minutes of looking around in the office for any semblance of a laptop or a tablet or whatever, he gave up and dejectedly went to a nearby café he frequented during his breaks. Although those times were usually his midnight breaks, when he would stay in the darkened laboratory just to finish up on a new substance he was hell-bent on perfecting, so when he went inside, Yvette, the blonde waitress he was friends with, wasn’t in her shift. Instead, there was a surly-looking teenager with one headphone plugged in. He was chewing gum, as well. Peter just grimaced and ordered a latte, which the teenager dolefully rung up with a small ‘tsk’ and a not-so-polite ‘thank you’ when he gave him the coffee and his change. He just shrugged it off and went to his favourite spot by the window, which was blissfully vacant.

He turned one particular thought stone over as he sipped his drink. He was seriously considering himself to turn in to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s offers and save Wade the trouble of having Agents like Coulson on his back all the time. Still, he felt something under his skin crawl whenever he thought of actually surrendering the only part of his life that had been private thus far after becoming vigilante.

The question remained. Was Wade worth it?

He made an unflattering noise as the coffee spilled a bit onto the table. The teenager from the counter gave him the stink eye, and Peter hurriedly put the cup down and wiped the mess with tissues. All the while, he thought of how he cleaned their flat. He remembered how surprised he was of the little names carved into the wood, inside hearts. All of them were crossed out, and it had come to no surprise that there were just as many male names in those hearts as well as female ones.

Wade was the type of guy to mess around when someone got comfortable with them. That much was a given. Peter was – dare he say it? – his best bud, and awkward pat-downs during movie marathons were what guys usually did, right? Their banters were 99.9% playful, and both of them were quite civil about the living arrangements they were in. They were _complete_ bros, nothing more, right?

Right?

He puffed out his cheeks. At least that’s what he wanted to believe. The butterflies in his stomach that always get agitated at the slightest mention of Wade worked themselves into a flurry now as one particular scene weaselled into his mind.

That of them cuddling in a couch and eventually sleeping together after Wade had blown his brains out.

Peter had his face buried in his hands before he knew it. God, he was all over the place because of this guy. Because of some asshole who smelled like Mexican 24/7, who made inappropriate jokes all related to Peter’s ass, who smiled widely and followed him like a puppy if Peter mentioned getting food, he was getting the jitters. He was probably head over heels because of –

A mercenary who saw Spider-Man in dollar signs.

No matter how much he loved the goofball with scars and comic books, he could never really separate Wade Wilson from Deadpool. Nor can he do vice versa. Everything came in one package, and unfortunately, Peter, with all his secrets, came in one as well. And he knew he couldn’t risk it. Sure, he was being selfish, but really – who would want someone you love be the one holding the knife that’ll eventually stab you in the back?

By the time Peter took another sip of his coffee, it had already gotten cold. He barely noticed.

* * *

 

The days passed by in a flurry. Peter had to check up on Harry every once in a while at work, where he had asked for an excuse to work full-time for a week, since he had to focus on exams. His superiors had been lenient on him primarily because Peter was weeks ahead of their research thanks to him staying most nights.

Harry was feeling better, as well, judging by the fact that he was actually sober, but he sometimes panicked whenever Peter would come unexpected in the room. He would always find his friend staring off into space, or leaning back from his pristine table.

By Wednesday, Felicia had told him to set an appointment before going up to see Harry.

“CEO’s orders, Mr. Parker,” she had said, a small smile on her face. “I’m sure you understand. We’ve got some major representatives from Japan and Korea coming any day now. Mr. Osborn’s getting worked up.”

“I understand,” Peter had replied, and hurriedly excused himself. Harry’s silhouette was barely visible through the glass panes of his office, but he looked like he was talking to someone. Peter didn’t want to bother, so he just resumed working and/or reviewing his notes by his station before it was time for him to go to the university.

Friday came. Peter’s last exams were over at two o’clock, and by that he was rushing home to his flat, carrying take-out Mexican that could probably last him either three days (Peter-wise) or three hours (Wade-wise). He had to bend over to catch his breath, and by the time his heart rate was nearly normal, he straightened and knocked on the door.

There was a rush of air as the door opened, and in a few seconds he was met with something very broad, and warmth enveloped him. The tell-tale smell of Mexican and gunpowder, along with his signature musk, was all it took for Peter to know it was Wade giving him a near bone-crushing hug. Although he tried to hug back, all his arms could do was flail. He tapped his back, choking out, “Wade… Oxygen… Please…”

“Oh, whoops.” Wade leaned away, but not much, just enough for Peter to breathe and get the things he dropped in a rush. He was wearing shorts that hung low on his hips, and a towel was hanging around his neck. Peter finally registered Wade was naked from the waist up. He didn’t seem to mind though, being at home with Peter on the subject of his scars. He smiled widely and patted him on the shoulder, saying, “I forgot even cuties can _actually_ die from oxygen deprivation. But then, you _are_ a nerd. Do you need an inhaler? Two inhalers? A nebulizer? _Two nebulizers --_ ”

“Har, har, what a riot,” Peter shot back, rolling his eyes, but there was a faint smile on his face. This was familiar. Their banter, Wade’s hand swatting him on the rump as if they did that often – wait _what?!_

“Oh, dang, I’d seriously tap that,” Wade said loudly, smirking. Peter nearly webbed him in the face in shock. Thankfully he didn’t process the action on time.

“Di… Did you just –“

“Cop a feel in the glorious Parker gluteus maximus?” Wade feigned thinking, then nodded sagely. “You bet your camera I did.”

“But –“

“I missed you, honey.”

“Wade –“

“No, but seriously.” Wade stepped closer, towering over Peter, who took one small step after another back, until Wade had cornered him against the wall in the hallway. “I missed you.”

“Wade, l-let me through.” Fuck. Peter’s speech was faltering. He felt like he was going to barf the butterflies in his stomach. He was sure he was as red as a tomato by now. Wade’s body heat and scent was making him heady.

“Not until…”

“Until what?”

"Until this."

A scarred finger lifted Peter’s chin up. They made eye contact, and Peter unconsciously gulped. “Wade?”

The other just winked and leaned closer. Peter swore his heartbeat was on speaker for the whole building to hear.

 _Four inches._ Peter was still shocked, knowing full well what was going to happen. He needed to get away, to not entertain the thoughts his heart was screaming for.

 _Three inches._ His hand had balled up on Wade’s towel, not knowing what else to grip and not trusting his ability to control his super strength in such a dangerous situation.

 _Two inches._ Peter shut his eyes, waiting for the moment, the pressure. He could feel Wade’s breath ghosting over his lips.

 _One inch._ Wade was saying something. Peter strained to hear it.

“They’ve bugged the whole place,” Wade murmured in the softest tone.

Peter couldn’t process it fully, what with Wade’s mouth on his own.


	14. Lifeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter and Wade turn their backs on each other, reaching out for their respective lifelines - in Peter's case, a familiar face. In Wade's case, an old lifestyle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, SO SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING SOON ENOUGH.
> 
> Stuff happened! So much stuff happened!!!
> 
> I'll be in France next month until May on exchange and I've just had it with paperwork ;A; 
> 
> I know I know I'm sorry, no excuses. Here you go!  
> \--  
> starting from here on out, multi-POV's. lots of stuff going on in the next chapters! Introduction of White and Yellow boxes!
> 
> White - {x}  
> Yellow - [x]

* * *

“Agent Coulson,” a tall man in a suit acknowledged before sitting down in a café, as if they were old friends. Coulson nodded minutely, continuing to drink his coffee while studying the menu. The other man continued on. “I’ve got information.”

“Tone your voice down, agent,” he said, amused, then put down the menu. He put his palm up. The man put an envelope on his hands, then excused himself.

This was interesting, Coulson thought, studying the envelope. It was plain brown, like a manila envelope, but the opening flap was on the side. _Pictures,_ he finally realized, then opened the envelope to get them.

It was a little grainy, and almost entirely black and white, but there was no doubt in what he was seeing. He frowned, placing the pictures of Wade and Mr. Parker locking lips in the hallway of their shared apartment.

This could get sticky. Wade had a penchant for the members of the red light district; that much was obvious. Peter didn’t look like the type to frequent any bars, and, from what information he had gathered, Peter wasn’t, in any way, affiliated with any group that was even the least bit rebellious or of note for S.H.I.E.L.D. His psychological tests, of which the school was happy to provide, proved to pass his standards; Peter, apparently, had a heightened sense of justice, bravery, and equality after his grandfather died. This increase only strengthened around the time his girlfriend, Gwen Stacy, passed.

Peter looked like any average civilian with a strong sense of responsibility and social awareness. Coulson applauded him. Not many of his generation were socially aware, much less socially participative. To think that he was with someone toxic, someone not right in the head, someone who has been immersed too long in the disappointments of life…

It made Coulson shiver. Peter was one in a million, with his skillset and his ideals. Wade was a highly unstable person. The very idea of him corrupting Peter…

 If Coulson played his cards right, he could recruit Peter. He could make him join S.H.I.E.L.D. With his stellar performance in the field of science, plus his added experience with OsCorp, he would very well fit with the likes of Agents Fitz and Simmons. Yes, that would be the perfect field for him.

But Wade was the problem.

He regarded the photos again. If Peter was in love with Wade, that would make his plan to separate them all the more harder. Perhaps a full scholarship to a university abroad would do? But he would need to relocate with his family, and he found Peter fiercely protective of Aunt May. He remembered how he had practically snarled the word ‘Agent’ at him, as if it was some detestable word.

He had felt something stir inside him, a kind of unease. He had chalked it up as Wade possibly starting to corrupt the boy, hence the start of research. But in retrospect, it wasn’t just that. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but he had somehow heard his voice before. But he couldn’t figure out when…

He sipped contemplatively on his drink, draining it in one go. He left a few dollars on the table, tucked the envelope inside his coat, then walked away. He had more to discover.

 _And soon,_ he thought grimly. _Before it’s too late._

* * *

 

“Rate me.”

“What?” Peter looked up at Wade, sluggish. He had been dwelling on the tingly feeling on his lips for the past two hours. Wade had left him, shell-shocked, in that hallway, as if nothing happened. After a few minutes of trying to rearrange his thoughts, he went inside only to find Wade lounging around on the couch with a plate full of chimichangas.

Wade pointed at his lips then made a loud smacking noise. “So, how was your first kiss?”

“That was most definitely _not_ my first kiss,” Peter countered.

“My hopes and dreams of having a cherry boy tonight are over,” the other wailed.

“First off,” Peter huffed. “Your kiss was a 5 out of 10. At best.”

There was a huge gasp. Wade had his hand on his chest. “That hurt!”

“ _Second,”_ Peter hissed, then whispered. “You just did that because we got bugged.”

Wade stood up from his seat. There was a grim look that passed his face, and then Peter found himself oddly pinned against the wall. “First off,” he growled. “I’m an 8 at _least._ All my lady friends say so.”

“Perhaps they meant they wanted an 8-digit tip,” Peter mused.

“Second.” And here the hand on Peter’s hip squeezed him. He had to stifle the urge to moan. “We’re still bugged. So act like a couple.”

“With you smelling like the back of an obscure taco stand in Queens? No thanks,” he snapped and tried pushing him away. Wade stood his ground and caged him, both arms on either side of his body, firmly planted on the wall.

“Hon, you don’t understand the situation right now,” he whispered, an inch away from his lips. Peter was finding it hard to breathe, and that wasn’t because Wade was all up in his personal space. “You need to play along.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Then you won’t see Aunt May for a long, long time.”

He felt like he got punched in the gut with a fist made of ice. “Don’t you dare,” he started, but Wade shook his head.

“I won’t lift a finger for a sweet old woman who gives me free pie, idiot.” Wade let him go, walking to the kitchen to get a bottle of Corona. “But I doubt Coulson would be the same.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. is one of the good guys,” he defended. “A-And Coulson is a higher-up in S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Petey, you can’t trust everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D.” he shook his head. “I once got an offer to kill Samuel L. Jackson –“

“Who?”

“You know. The eyepatch guy.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You mean Director Fury?”

“Yeah, that guy. Like Anger from _Inside Out_.”

“I have no idea what you just said just now.”

Wade waved the distraction away with a flick of his hand, looking irritated. “Look, what I’m saying is. I once got a sweet-ass offer from someone in the lower higher-ups to kill the highest higher-up. It was like a self-conceited person giving itself a gift.”

“Maybe they were just using an alia-“

“You think I’d be that easy to fool?” Wade snorted. “Kid, I’ve got major XP points in this career. People backing out of a deal without paying me for the work I did isn’t something new. I track those bitches down like a bloodhound.”

“Maybe it’s Hydra?”

“Exactly. So, being the _extremely handsome and more-than-capable kisser_ expert in this field, I suggest you stay low.”

“So I’m supposed to take a mercenary’s advice on where to put my loyalty and trust,” Peter snorted.

“Hey! I didn’t italicize that shit above for nothing, you know.” Wade huffed indignantly. “Want a beer?”

All Peter could do was sigh deeply and rub the balls of his hands against his eyes. “Get me a Smirnoff Mule.” He needed something inside his system to dull his senses even just a tiny bit. They were going haywire. He never liked beer. Smirnoff was something he had drank at a party in the university when he was a freshman. It tasted and had the consistency of Sprite. The vodka chased the liquid down and sat as an aftertaste in his tongue.

“Ooh, vodka. Don’t tell me you and Black Widow get along.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind. Russian bombshell. Literally and figuratively. Probably better if the U.S. didn’t get involved, but hey, that’s what the good ol’ U.S.A. does best, am I right? Head's – oh shit, watch out!”

There was a small twinge and Peter’s hand unconsciously shot up to catch the bottle mid-air. He didn’t so much as blink, and just murmured a small, “Thanks” before drinking a quarter of it. It was better than regular vodka in this situation. It made him think clearer, his mouth loose. And it went down his throat with less fire. He nursed the bottle, still leaning against the wall, while Wade was uncharacteristically silent.

Finally, he broke the silence (a record of two minutes and 35 seconds). “How did you do that?”

“What?” Peter looked up at him. “Do what?”

“ _That!_ That… freakish catch thing?”

“Uhh…” Shit. He looked around the room and saw a ball. “I played basketball,” he mumbled.

“Your Honor, I call honorable bullshit on Mr. Parker’s statement, on the count of insufficient evidence. He is much too lean for someone who played basketball.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Can and will, babe.” He winked and sipped his beer. “Can and will.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’d like to fuck you very much in your –“

“Stop!” He shouted before Wade finished the sentence. “I’m not playing this game!”

“What game?”

“ _This!”_ He gestured between them, words tumbling out. “Wade, this – this isn’t fooling anyone!” _Anyone,_ he thought, _meaning me._ His chest hurt when he thought that Wade had just kissed him to put up a front, to leave a false scent. He didn’t know why.

Wrong. He knew _exactly_ why. But he wasn’t acknowledging. No. Not now. Not in this situation.

It hurt too much. To be worth next to nothing. To be led by false hopes. If Gwen were alive –

 _Gwen._ Gwen, who was beautiful and good and charming and sweet and was the sun in Peter’s otherwise dark life. In a sense, she _was_ the sun. Peter had grown accustomed to her dimpled smiling face, her presence during school breaks and weekends. Her blond hair, topped with a pink headband, the sign he’d look for on a Saturday afternoon that she would come over on her bicycle.

Gwen was his sun, a constant force that he had taken for granted, and now that she was gone, he was fumbling in the dark. Lost, blind. Gwen saw him as a person, with feelings that were legitimate, not to be played with. Wade was none of that.

He paled. Why was he comparing Wade with Gwen?

His throat constricted. God, what was happening to him?

He tried to catch his breathing, then looked up at Wade’s face.

He looked… blank. Unblinking, unreadable.

“A game.” He scratched at the back of his head. If Wade still had hair, Peter could imagine it sticking up at odds and ends. “You think this is…”

“What else could it be?” He tried laughing. It sounded empty. Hollow. Fake. He didn’t feel like laughing anymore.

He needed a friend.

Aunt May, bless her, would just give him cryptic advice, after a long hug and a soothing cup of tea. Maybe a plate or two of muffins. Classic, but not what he needed right now.

Gwen was six feet under. His parents probably more, lost in the ocean.

There was only one person left. A lifeline. “Harry,” he whimpered. He sounded pathetic. “I need Harry.”

Wade’s face darkened immediately. It looked like there was a storm inside him, barely contained. “Fine then,” he bit out then got a duffel bag, then threw it at him. “Pack your shit. I was going to ask a friend of mine to check the pipes anyway.”

That was Wadespeak for “I want you out from my sight”. Peter knew it. He nodded and meekly started to throw in clothes, underwear, a towel, toiletries into the bag. He was backing down from this. He needed someone, anyone but Wade right now. Maybe a little break from each other would do them good.

Peter left without slamming the door. He didn’t try to pick up where they left off, didn’t try to make a scene. But somehow he knew that the crunch he heard while he walked down the stairs was Wade’s fist going through the drywall.

* * *

A half hour later, Peter was in a cab, looking at a dog-eared picture of him and Gwen in their graduation robes. He must’ve looked weird to the cab driver, teary-eyed in jeans and a baggy university sweatshirt and a duffel bag. He must’ve thought he had been thrown out by a lover for something awful. S.H.I.E.L.D. would have a riot.

It had started to rain when he finally got out of the cab, giving the driver a wad of cash before he drove off. He was so out of it that he just stood there in the rain for ten minutes, looking at ‘H. Osborn’, printed in neat letters, in the callbox of the building. _Must be Felicia’s handwriting,_ he mused.

Finally, he pressed the button next to his name. The response was instantaneous when he told him who he was. A few minutes later, Harry himself – no butler, no servant, no Felicia – walked out, in a black robe and holding an umbrella.

“Parker you look like someone –“ Harry cut himself short, playful smile falling. “-died.”

Peter couldn’t say anything else. He knew Harry like the back of his hand, and he was confident Harry was the same, excluding vigilante business in the dead of night. Harry understood. Harry asked no questions.

He let him in, Peter sluggish, slow to respond. The door closed behind him.

* * *

Wade glared at the fist-sized hole in the drywall. He had hit the concrete post in their living room, too, but it was unsatisfying. His knuckles were split and bleeding, but it didn’t budge. Fucking asshole engineering.

He concentrated on inhaling and exhaling. _In through the nose, out through the mouth._

Pffft, what a weird-ass kink. Monks were full of shit. If the levitating part was true, he’d have hung up his holsters a long time ago.

…Maybe he’d hung them up for maybe an hour or two.

Maximum.

[Peter wouldn’t like that, you know.]

 _“Fuck him,”_ he growled internally against Yellow’s box. “Seriously, you’re siding with _him?_ My own head betrays me? You know shit’s about to go down when man fights himself. _”_

{Technically, we aren’t _you._ }

[We’re just _in_ you. Innuendo aside, because that’d be _really_ gross otherwise.]

“White, are you serious? You never side with Yellow.”

[Yeah, White, you _never_ side with me. Who are you? _What_ are you? You’re not white. Are you, like, very, very light gray?]

{Enough. No more _The Lego Movie_ references for you.}

“But _Batman!”_

{To be fair, the only thing you're close to in that movie is Green Lantern.}

[Hey, you even have the same actors in the films!]

“Don’t remind me,” Wade groaned out loud, a picture of Ryan Reynolds in an animated green suit coming to mind. “That was just an embarrassment.”

White and Yellow had started to bicker on how amazing Ryan would be in the Deadpool movie. Wade, as usual, closed his ‘mental ears’ off from them. He concentrated on the rings coming through the tinny speakers of his phone.

“ _Hello?”_ The monotone voice that greeted him made him gnash his teeth. What a noob, digitally enhancing his voice to remain anonymous. “Mr. Deadpool, what can I help you with today? I hope you’ve reconsidered my offer?”

No preamble. Wade would have to match his pace. “I have.”

“Good. And?”

“I’m in.”

[You’re _what?_ ]

{Wilson, I knew you were crazy.}

[Petey wouldn’t like this!]

“ _To hell with him,”_ he grumbled.

[What about Spidey?]

“ _He’s dead.”_

{Technically, he’s just in unlimited vacation mode.}

[He might come back any day!]

“And he’ll come back to me,” he mumbled under his breath. No more playing around. He had no one to be good for, no one believing in him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Deadpool. I can’t just rely on oral promises,” the voice over the phone continued.

“Send contracts, I don’t care. If you know my number, then you know my e-mail address. Send it there.”

“Very well. You know what you’ll have to do, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to do it? Kill a close friend?”

White and Yellow were annoying, trying to stop him from what he wanted to say. He knew, deep in his gut he knew, that what he was going to say was wrong. Some part of him didn’t want to do this, and White and Yellow knew it too.

But he had been left behind, and for no logical reason. He had been deserted before, but not abandoned, dangled over nothing, like this. To hell with Peter and his baby-face and chubby cheeks and cute perky butt. To hell with his hope in Wade, that he was a good guy. He tried protecting the boy, but all he did was hurt him in the process. Sounds to Wade like he was a good-for-nothing piece of shit.

And that was what he was, basically. That was why everyone left him, beat him, isolated him, and, as if to add insult to injury, life had to fuck him over, not once, but twice: with the cancer  _and_  the project that would give way to what he was now.

Suddenly, his head was clear. White and Yellow were just background noise, along with the constant static in his mind. The words flow out of his mouth without a hitch.

“Spider-Man is no friend of mine.”


	15. Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FOR THIS CHAPTER, I'LL PUT UP A TRIGGER WARNING. 
> 
> Particularly at the very end. Wade's thoughts don't get messy, per se, but the boxes say some fucked up shit. 
> 
> Mentions, descriptions of suicide below. 
> 
> I'll also add the necessary tags to my fanfic, just in case.
> 
> \---
> 
> In which Peter and Wade seek reprieve from the day's events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to try and apologize for stalling this for 5 months. I've got not excuse. I'm already leaving France in, like, two days, and I haven't updated. 
> 
> What a jerk. 
> 
> I am also not going to promise any regular updates (since I'll be coming back to my country and thrust into yet another semester with no breaks whatsoever. FUN). I shall only promise one thing, though -- that I WILL finish this fanfic, and will not abandon ship.
> 
> Thank you for staying with me this far. It won't extend too far (I won't let it), so maybe around 5 or 6 more chapters and I call it quits. 
> 
> \--
> 
> FOR THIS CHAPTER, I'LL PUT UP A TRIGGER WARNING. Particularly at the very end. Wade's thoughts don't get messy, per se, but the boxes say some fucked up shit. Mentions, descriptions of suicide below. I'll also add the necessary tags to my fanfic, just in case.

Peter watched his feet in the shower, feeling as if a personal rain cloud was hovering over his head. The water falling from the shower overhead, however, was nice, warm, and comforting. It made him want to curl up under it, shut out the world and just concentrate on the pitter-patter. He should’ve brought a chair or a stool. He could last at least an hour in there. The water rolled off his skin, and he closed his eyes, imagining that it brought his sadness and guilt and everything that made him sick out of his system.

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door, and his best friend’s voice rang out over the sounds of the shower. “I hear that, Parker.”

“Hear what?” he mumbled, not really in the mood for anything.

“Water, idiot. From the shower. I told you to take a bath.”

“I don’t want to be a prune when I come out.”

“You should be one right now. You’ve been there for forty minutes.” Harry audibly scoffed. “Honestly, I’m not complaining about the water bill or anything. It just gets me worried.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologized and turned the water heater and the shower off. He padded onto the soft fluffy mat at the edge of the shower, then got a towel to dry himself with. Harry had given him a fresh set of clothes to borrow, but once Peter tried on the sweatshirt with the OsCorp logo on it, he jumped at the sound of fabric tearing. He knew he had found a problem. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I might’ve ripped one of your OsCorp sweatshirts,” he mumbled, raising his arm to look at the rip on the seam by his side in the mirror. He had a bigger build than what he had before because of the vigorous exercise care of flexing around the urban jungle that was New York City, and in spandex no less. Even if he had a semi-hiatus on Spiderman duties, he found that he liked the exercise, maintaining his physique with early morning jogs and a bi-weekly trip to the cheap gym nearby.  “Wait, why do you even have one?”

“Corporate sponsors, mostly. It’s fine, I don’t use them much unless for pajamas.”

Peter added underwear and sweatpants on, and he looked like he was ready for a jog. He dried his hair with the towel, then went out.

Harry looked up at him from fiddling with his phone. “What took you so long?”

“You said you had an emergency at OsCorp, so I thought… While you were on the phone…”

“That was rude of me,” he hummed. “Sorry. I should put my phones on silent when there’s a guest.”

“I basically intruded –“

“Oh, as if you ever really disturbed me.” The young Osborn rolled his eyes and led him to the kitchen, where there was a bowl of mac and cheese. Peter’s mouth almost watered on sight. “I made some classic mac. You know how I like it.”

“I _love_ it,” Peter whispered, remembering so many afternoons spent with them sharing a big bowl of macaroni with cheese practically oozing from every piece. Harry, always the spoiled kid, never had to eat anything that was ready-made and from a box, and had their cooks make it from scratch, with four kinds of cheese, the kind that was bought in blocks and were bought based on how 'ripe' it was (whatever the chef meant by that). Peter was only half-joking whenever he said Harry had ruined mac and cheese for him forever.

“Help yourself. I made one bowl for each of us,” he said, gesturing to his own glass bowl on the coffee table, half of its contents already eaten.

“Tut tut, Mr. Osborn. There’s a serious hunger problem in New York City,” Peter admonished lightly. He reached for a big spoon and settled in the plush sofa in front of the flat screen TV.

“You seem to forget I had Felicia organize a marathon two weeks ago, with the proceeds all going to homeless shelters around New York,” he countered evenly. "And I know you know this, because you were one of the photographers who were present."

Peter just conceded with a half-shrug. “I’ll give you this round.”

“Don’t even try a second.” He hummed and turned on the television. An episode of a shallow late night show was on, and he turned the volume down, enough that it wasn’t distracting. “So, are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

“The what?”

“Your roommate?” he clarified with a roll of his eyes.

“My roommate is an elephant?” Peter squeaked, then, realizing he was talking and thinking like Wade, tried to divert the attention to him stuffing his mouth full of mac and cheese.

“Gross, Parker,” Harry groaned, throwing him a box of wet wipes. “You’re like a child.”

“I’m taller than you!”

“Wrong scale, Parker.” He rolled his eyes and waved the argument off. “Wrong scale.”

Peter laughed and smiled at him wryly. “Harry…”

“Don’t get sentimental,” the other warned, wagging his spoon at him.

He didn’t heed the warning. “Why are things so different now?”

Harry sighed. Looks like Peter was in one of those moods. He allowed a window of silence for them to eat, then began. “What field are you talking about in particular?”

“Uh, our whole lives?” He snorted, looking off into the distance. “When I was ten, I thought I’d be an engineer and I work for OsCorp…”

Now Harry looked at him, confused. “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

“No, I-I mean…” Peter fumbled. Shit. He faked a cough, one that made Harry roll his eyes in exasperation. “I wanted to arrive at this point without a hitch…”

Harry tilted his head in silent acknowledgement. Of course, the death of his adoptive father and his girlfriend was never in the plans. “Pete, you gotta move on, man.”

“I know,” the other mumbled, picking at the hem of his borrowed sweatpants. They smelled nice, and felt incredible on his skin compared to what he had back at Wade’s. _No, don’t think about him. Think of blond hair and a cheeky smile. Gwen…_ “It’s hard to.”

“But you’ve got to.”

I _know_ ,” he said petulantly, like an admonished child. It’s not as if he’d tried, but the lingering guilt was taking its time fading.

Harry frowned at him. “Hey. You can crash at my place as long as you like. Just don’t expect a ride to work every morning.”

The smile on Peter’s face emanated pure gratitude. “You’re a real hero, Harry.” He picked up his spoon and continued eating, entirely missing the split-second shift on his best friend’s face at his words.

“Hero…” Harry mumbled to himself, forcing out a small laugh. Peter didn’t seem to hear what he said either. “Yeah.”

* * *

[Are you fucking _serious?_ ]

“He died in the fifth movie, remember?” Wade replied. “And although I fell for Death (capital D), I’m not too excited about the prospect of fucking the _dead._ ”

{Ah, the old ‘Sirius-serious’ joke. _Classic._ }

[More like ‘ _grow the fuck up’._ ]

He was perched on top of a high-rise building with a great view of the city below. Dusk made everything come alive, moreso than dawn. This was the time that almost everyone gets out of work and actually have time to unwind a bit before going home. Wade would try to exercise his people-watching skills once in a while, completely decked out on his suit and guns if the need arises.

“Thanks for the exposition, author. Where’ve you been all this time?”

{She’s gonna ignore you.}

[Author used ‘Ignore’. It’s supper effective!]

“Aw, that’s sad. Everyone ignores me,” Wade said, pouting like a petulant child.

{If you just go back and apologize to Pete –}

“Remind me again why _I_ have to be the one to apologize?” he scoffed, pushing his mask up so he could breathe the air around him directly and not through his mask. No way in hell was he going to apologize. Why should he? He was doing something that was in _their_ best interest to actually be safe!

“That and I wanted a legit excuse to kiss the guy…” he mumbled to himself. He had always imagined Peter’s lips to be soft, but god _damn,_ that boy felt like heaven to kiss. Pupils blown wide, lips soft as goddamned clouds, mouth pliant and loose… This was better than any porn from Japan he had 'borrowed' from Weasel's prized stash. Wade squirmed, trying to dispel the thoughts of Peter in a seifuku uniform on a windy day, lest he wanted a raging boner in tight-as-fuck spandex. “Boxes, distract me!”

{Just breathe in the air pollution. It’s safer than the mask. It’s starting to stink. You know. Like the rest of us.}

[Now you can inhale the smog of the city directly!]

{The smog levels up here plus the stink could kill any normal man.}

[Good thing we’re not normal!]

“Far from it,” Wade agreed, leaning back on a post, thankful his boner was now, at least, in check. He had a great view of the last hurrahs of the day’s sunset from up here. “We’re on the other side of every spectrum.”

{The good and Wade.}

[The hot and Wade.]

{Spiderman and Wade.}

[Wow what a douchebag, can you believe this guy?]

Wade grumbled something and inched for the gun on his holster. “If you two won’t shut up about Spidey I’m going to make you.”

[Oooooo, scary.]

{Positively quaking in my boots.}

[I’m shitting myself. Smell that? Oh wait, it’s just Wade.]

“I’m serious,” he growled, taking the safety off the gun and pointing it to his head.

{Well go on then.}

[It’s not like we’re going to disappear when you revive.]

{No matter what, we’ll still be here.}

“How touching,” he mocked, putting the safety on again and placing the gun back. It was useless to argue, and pointless to waste ammo on something temporary. Today wasn’t a good day, but it wasn’t that bad. Besides, he didn’t have his Harley Gun.

{For the readers, his Harley Gun has ‘good night’ carved into the handle.}

[It’s what he uses when shooting himself for recreational purposes!]

“That makes it sound like a drug,” Wade hummed, swinging his legs in the air.

{I mean, if Harley Quinn was a drug, you’d be shooting up all day, every day.}

[Amen, amen. Margot Robbie’s gonna kill it in the movies.]

“Can we please get back to the subject?”

{We’ve got a better idea – Wade, if you had to pick, would you --}

[ -- insert Daveed Diggs as Jefferson saying ‘Whaaaat’ here -- ]

{Harley Quinn or Petey?}

“That’s tough,” he said, contemplating. He took out his knife and started to roll it between his fingers. “On the one hand, Harley’s in my lane. We could fuck shit up together.”

{The term ‘beautiful disasters’ is apt. More apt than for your face.}

“But Harley’s coo-coo.”

[Aren’t you?]

{Yellow’s got a point. Wait, _yellow_ has a _point?!}_

[White, don’t you start --]

And here they were again, bickering nonsense in his head. Wade already had a migraine from desperately trying – and miserably failing – to forget about Peter and the failure that was today. He didn’t need any more reminders he was too fucked up to deal with, even by the only human who had been insane enough these past few weeks to actually live with him.

[ -- Just fucking kill yourself, why don’tcha. Do Wade and I a favor.]

{You very much well know that both of us got into Wade’s head at the exact same time. So both of us are nuisances. Kill me and you kill yourself too.}

[Not permanently.]

{Unfortunately.}

“Unfortunately…” Wade echoed, looking down at the city. The lamp posts were on, finally, and looking down between his legs – [not the first time he’d done that, wink wink] – at the people below, crowding and pushing against each other like ants with their own personal agenda. Rush hour was already here, and in three minutes the streets were suddenly too filled with people, too noisy with cars honking and angry yelling.

Too much noise. Too many senses. Wade winced, trying to block it out, but White and Yellow were being noisy in his own damn head, too.

{Kill yourself - }

[No, _you_ kill yourself - ]

{Idiots first -}

[Go ahead then - ]

Wade had had it. In a mindless, thoughtless second, he had his gun out his holster, in his hand, safety off.

In the next, there was an audible _bang_ from the rooftop of an average-looking building. Some people down below heard it, startled, and looked up to find the source. It only took them two minutes to lose interest and they want back to what they were doing. Unaware to them that, after the _bang_ wasn’t silence, but the heavy thud of Wade’s lifeless body as it fell backwards.  


End file.
